tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84989446052998625072018-03-06T05:41:36.644-05:00Adventures of my Frontal LobeA girl clearing space in her head for new phobias and snarky observations.~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-41292700660779394572013-03-25T06:53:00.000-04:002013-08-10T10:02:49.834-04:00Prompted<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Time for some lightness of being for a change. &nbsp;I know I could use it, I bet you could too.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I sat trying to think of what I wanted to write, I turned to my Pinterest Pal, <i>Another Pinner</i> for some blog post inspiration. &nbsp;<i>Another Pinner</i> has always proven to be Genius! Brilliant! Epic! and those other overused Pinterest superlatives. &nbsp; Forget Wikipedia, I have<i> Another Pinner</i> to guide me through life. Want some proof? &nbsp;Allow me to copy and paste their pins and my reactions for you:</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;"><i><b>Another pinner said "AMAZING Homemade Crescent Rolls! I will never make another roll for the Holidays&nbsp;</b></i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;"><b><i>again. AMAZING". Need to try it.</i></b> &nbsp;(Please note the &nbsp;use&nbsp;</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14.84375px;">of</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14.84375px;">&nbsp;</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14.84375px;">double</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14.84375px;">&nbsp;amazing in all caps designed to entice you never to whack that tube of unhomemade crescent rolls on your counter again.) &nbsp;Which won't happen. &nbsp;I LOVE whacking that tube. &nbsp;That sounds dirty.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Another Pinner said "This is how our pit bull, Roxanne was when I was growing up! Dad couldn't spank us around her! Lol" </i>&nbsp;Hmmm. &nbsp;Dad's spankings make me and the crescent roll tube feel much better about our relationship.</span></span><br /><b style="background-color: white; color: #211922; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14.84375px;"><i><br /></i></b><b style="background-color: white; color: #211922; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14.84375px;"><i>&nbsp;</i></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Another Pinner said - Did this tonight with a ball between my inner thighs and another one behind my back.. down an inch and up an inch. RESULTS!!! &nbsp; </i>&nbsp;I suspect you have a visual all made up for this, don't you? &nbsp;Now you're feeling dirty too. Let's just say that at this point I am totally at peace with the crescent roll tube.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;">&nbsp;</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;">Another pinner said,<b style="font-style: italic;"> "I've made pouches before but this one is just adorable! Perfect for all&nbsp;</b></span></span><b style="color: #211922; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 14.84375px;">my scraps!" &nbsp;</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14.84375px;">(Wow, a pouchmaker. &nbsp;I missed that one in the "useless degrees you could have had").&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;">And let's not forget Another Pinner's Coup de grace, feeding the Churchies.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;">Another pinner said she made this for a Church event, and people raved!</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;">&nbsp;</span></i></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;"><br /></span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;"><br /></span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; line-height: 14.84375px;"><br /></span></i></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Anyhoo, we are back to my regular typing in a normal size font and I am here to tell you that one click of the Pinterest header and<i> Another Pinner </i>was right there for me, ready to dispense inspiration for my boggy writing brain. &nbsp;Under the pin&nbsp;<i>Journal Prompts to get you writing </i>I found the following gems; which I have answered truthfully for you:</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>1. What is your favorite color,place, food, song and movie?</b></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Cerulean blue in Key West eating milk chocolate with Prince watching Sixteen Candles.</i></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>2. What do you like to do? &nbsp;How does it make you feel?</b></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">&nbsp;<i>Well, I like to drink. &nbsp;I like to drink vodka. &nbsp;It makes me feel 100% better.&nbsp;</i></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>3. &nbsp;What is something you're good at? &nbsp;What makes you good at it?</b></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Karaoke. &nbsp;Vodka.</i></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>4. &nbsp;What keeps you up at night worrying? &nbsp;Is this realistic? &nbsp;Can you do something about it? What can you do?</b></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>My dancing skills. No. Yes. Vodka.</i></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">&nbsp;<i>Another Pinner</i>, this is not working for me. &nbsp;This is not journal inspiration, this is more like the questionnaire notes I got passed in tenth grade. &nbsp;I fully expect to turn around and see Jake Ryan sitting behind me.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wNFh-BgNSu0/UVEbrmMp8GI/AAAAAAAAAZU/0qUfoYEHBYo/s1600/tumblr_l3tflu5ow61qziyd9o1_1280.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wNFh-BgNSu0/UVEbrmMp8GI/AAAAAAAAAZU/0qUfoYEHBYo/s320/tumblr_l3tflu5ow61qziyd9o1_1280.png" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So here I am, still fairly uninspired but intent on giving you something light. &nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank God we need new tires, for now I have my very own <i>journal prompt.</i></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because we need new tires I "get" to shop for them. &nbsp;Like any good consumer I called around for prices, and like any good consumer I spoke to a ratio of one normal person to four idiots. &nbsp;My favorite idiot conversation went down like this:</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">me: &nbsp;Hi, I am calling for prices on a set of tires for my 2010 Saturn Outlook. &nbsp;It's an XE base model (because we're poor) front wheel drive.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Discount Tire Idiot: &nbsp;OK, well let me just check here (clickity click of the computer keys) uh OH, did you know that they no longer make your vehicle?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">me: &nbsp;Yes, I am aware that they discontinued Saturns.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">DTI: &nbsp;Well, that's a problem. &nbsp;You're vehicle is no longer being made.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">me: &nbsp;Yes, I believe we have established that.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">DTI: &nbsp;This is a problem.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">me: &nbsp;We've covered that, too. So, you don't have tires for my car?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">DTI: &nbsp;Well, they don't make your car anymore.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">me: &nbsp;Perhaps you're suggesting I trade it for a car that you DO have tires for?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">DTI: &nbsp;(clicking on his computer again) &nbsp;Are you SURE it's a 2010? &nbsp;It's not a 2009?&nbsp;</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">(and then; </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;">the kicker</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">) &nbsp;"Maybe you'd like to put your husband on the line?"</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At this point, I remove the phone from my ear, ready to press the "end call" button and obliterate this imbicile from my day. &nbsp;Then, mercifully, my inner warrior kicked in.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">me: &nbsp;Why yes, <b>yes</b> <b>sir</b>, let me get <i>my husband</i> on the phone. &nbsp;<i>That way</i>, you can sit there diddling yourself while he walks out to the car and attempts to figure out what color it is, let alone what size tires we need. &nbsp;Let me assure you sir, that despite my unfortunate possession of an X chromosome and &nbsp;functioning uterus, I&nbsp;<i>can</i> identify the year, make and model of my vehicle. &nbsp;Now sir, I am going to let you go because surely you are late checking on the little lady at home rolling out AMAZING homemade Pinterest Crescent Rolls while barefoot in an apron. &nbsp;Send her my best wishes and thank her for enabling you to be the condescending turd that you are today.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Disclaimer: &nbsp;Bill knows what color car we drive (I think). &nbsp;And he may or may not know what size tires we have. &nbsp;More than likely, he does not care.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I should wrap up my light hearted, happy post now. &nbsp;I'm off to Belle Tire where they recognize that in order to get me to buy ridiculously overpriced tires they need to treat me like a chick who knows what P255/65/R18 means. &nbsp;Even if I don't. Or don't care. &nbsp;Or both. &nbsp;Pass the vodka.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-71440650761598760132013-03-06T03:03:00.000-05:002013-05-28T17:29:57.281-04:00Fly Me Home.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4zN5WnpWYmM/UaUhx7HGcbI/AAAAAAAAAaY/xqQWg2o222A/s1600/Mute.swans.flying.arp.750pix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4zN5WnpWYmM/UaUhx7HGcbI/AAAAAAAAAaY/xqQWg2o222A/s400/Mute.swans.flying.arp.750pix.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Memories are funny things. &nbsp;They can make you suck in your breath with wonder, make your stomach drop like a roller coaster ride, or they can make tears run down your face before you have time to think about swiping them off with your fist. They can be subtle and sweet, or hit you like a ton of bricks when you least expect it.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I think about her often. It's been a week now, and she's still an automatic reflex when I do things like turn down the frozen food aisle and stand in front of the Lean Cuisines, habitually ready to pick the requisite five or six boxes she considered "her dinners". &nbsp;Then I remember, she's gone. &nbsp;She doesn't have to decide between Sesame Chicken or Stuffed Peppers ever again. &nbsp;And suddenly, I am the idiot in the&nbsp;frozen&nbsp;food aisle who appears to be crying because Hollywood Market is out of&nbsp;Salisbury&nbsp;steak.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I suppose eventually it will get easier. My friend sent me some words today that I treasure. &nbsp;We both lost grandmothers that were larger than life and we long ago decided we were friends because we don't feed each other sugar coated cliches in times like this. &nbsp;His words were perfect. &nbsp;Here is what he wrote: &nbsp;"<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><i>I wish I could tell you that things will be okay, things will be alright, the pain of losing someone special will eventually lessen or that time heals all wounds. All of that is crap and the truth is that when we lose someone that has loved us unconditionally their memories will always make us laugh, make us cry, make us yearn for the days past and make us look forward to the future and seeing them again."</i></span></span><br /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">His words make me ponder something I can't always make myself think about. &nbsp;The "what's next" part of death. &nbsp;For Nana, and for me, too. During those "what's next" times, I watch as people with strong beliefs take solace in all the things they have been taught, surrounded by their church families and lifted up in their worship. &nbsp;My non-conforming Catholic childhood is not giving me a lot of assistance at this dark time. &nbsp;Instead I work to tap into my spiritual side, preferring to cut to the chase and simply talk with Nana, knowing fully well she isn't going to answer. I ask her how things are going in her first week on not-Earth, who she has seen and if she has found my dogs yet. &nbsp;I tell her about my day and firmly believe I am telling her things she already knows. &nbsp;I am pretty sure she's watching as I pick my way through this whole grief thing.</span></span><br /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">After Nana died, a young man came to Hospice House to pick her up. &nbsp;His name was Levi, and he could not have been much older than my Travis. &nbsp;He made such an impression on me; &nbsp;the old, bereavement obsessed nurse who demands her coworkers leave the room if they "can't handle" a grieving family. &nbsp;Levi asked me if I would like to help get Nana ready for the ride. &nbsp;Memories of my Gramps getting wheeled out of his bedroom in a bag make my stomach turn even to this day, but I pushed that thought away and told Levi "of course, I wanted to help." Together Levi and I picked up all 85 pounds of Nana and wrapped her in a soft sheet. &nbsp;I reached for the blanket to put over her and looked for the body bag that I knew had to be hiding discreetly under it. &nbsp;No body bag. &nbsp;Levi smiled at me as he said "we don't need one, she will be fine". &nbsp;Levi gave me space as I pulled the blanket up, kissing Nana one last time and telling her how much I loved her. &nbsp;Together we clicked the seat belts over her and tightened them up around her little body. &nbsp;He maneuvered her gently out of the room and out of the tasteful bay-jeh walls of Hospice House. &nbsp;I spun on my heel and grabbed my things and walked into the bright morning sun to drive home, swiping the tears off my cheeks with my fist.</span></span></span><br /><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">As I pulled onto the road, I had the wintery waters of the Black River on my left and the memories of three months of long drives, nursing homes and tears on my right. &nbsp;Neither option appealed to me so I looked ahead. &nbsp;I sighed, wondering how those three months came spiraling down to end like this; no Nana riding shotgun, no errands left to run, no panicked reminders that the light in front of me "might just turn yellow any second". &nbsp;The realization that an enormous chunk of my life was now traveling the opposite direction in a hearse hit at the exact time I looked up to see&nbsp;them: &nbsp;two swans, flying along over my car for five, maybe ten seconds before they broke off for the river. &nbsp;Two swans who were not the cardinals I always swore represented my Gramps. &nbsp;Two swans who knew that cardinals would have been too small to see through my tears and who wanted me to know that finally, almost twenty years later, they were together again and would always watch over me.&nbsp;</span></span></span><br /><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">I drove home to the people that are my world, ready to continue making memories.&nbsp;</span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-73931191319666203852013-02-24T23:52:00.001-05:002013-03-13T00:50:20.806-04:00Saying Goodbye.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qz9W9jn_k28/USrrmtFE7AI/AAAAAAAAAYs/5GYbj3x8szk/s1600/2013-02-24+21.18.09.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qz9W9jn_k28/USrrmtFE7AI/AAAAAAAAAYs/5GYbj3x8szk/s320/2013-02-24+21.18.09.png" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">As it turns out,&nbsp;the laptop&nbsp;is a good investment.&nbsp; It's 10:30 on a Sunday night.&nbsp; I woke up this morning planning a lazy day of laundry and&nbsp;being with my people, having celebrated Casey's&nbsp;twelfth&nbsp;birthday the&nbsp;day before.&nbsp; I planned on driving up to see Nana next weekend.&nbsp;&nbsp;I planned on a nice glass of red with Bill after dinner.&nbsp; But then the phone&nbsp;rang and plans be damned.&nbsp;I'm 300 miles from home sitting in a Hospice House with Nana as&nbsp;she&nbsp;fades away from this world.&nbsp; And all I can think of as I sit here is "write something".&nbsp; Because I am with Nana.&nbsp; And there is <em>so much </em>history.&nbsp; So many laughs and&nbsp;lately, so many tears&nbsp;with no doubt&nbsp;more to come.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia;">When I spoke to Moe earlier, I told her it is oddly peaceful sitting here in this beautiful facility, designed to allow people to die with dignity and free from pain.&nbsp; Nana does not open her eyes.&nbsp; She doesn't have a snarky remark or a reprimand for my absence.&nbsp; She just lies there very still, her purpose now to take the last breaths&nbsp;her body has&nbsp;rationed her for&nbsp;96 years.&nbsp; I take her hand and fold her fingers around mine, so they stay locked.&nbsp; So she knows I am here, despite everything that was&nbsp;designed to keep me at bay.&nbsp;&nbsp;We are "real good", she would say if she could.&nbsp;We always have been.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Someone had turned on a radio in her room.&nbsp; Christian music.&nbsp; For some reason, this doesn't annoy me like it usually would.&nbsp; I am not sure what I feel about religion, and I certainly don't have any Christian music on my iPod but for some reason, it seems right to have it playing very quietly. &nbsp;Nana used to sing gospel songs. &nbsp;I know Nana can't hear it, she doesn't have her hearing aids in and she is quite busy dying, so I&nbsp;suppose this music is meant for my ears instead. &nbsp;&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I take in&nbsp;Nana's room here at Hospice Home. Beige walls.&nbsp; She would love that. &nbsp;She pronounced it bay-JEH. Her whole house was beige, and she never understood why I wouldn't want my walls the same french vanilla ice cream color.&nbsp; "Beige walls look nice and clean, Kimi.&nbsp; You can never go wrong with beige." &nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Beige walls aside, I am going to miss about a million things about this person.&nbsp; I will never be able to&nbsp;make a kick ass pie crust from scratch without her to help me.&nbsp; I will never again have a perfectly ironed tablecloth returned to me after Christmas dinner, packed in white tissue paper ready for the next holiday.&nbsp; I will never eat deviled eggs that&nbsp;compare to hers.&nbsp; I will (probably) never get told I should "get that weight off so everyone can see your pretty face" again.&nbsp; I will not get to watch her delight in Halloween as the littlest trick or treaters struggle up to the door.&nbsp;&nbsp;My life&nbsp;will be&nbsp;so much emptier.&nbsp; No more hair day.&nbsp; No more Comerica Bank and fighting over the pneumatic tube that will "steal her money" at the drive through.&nbsp;&nbsp;No more scrambling to cover her as she lets an insulting remark fly in public.&nbsp; What will I do now?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia;">A few paragraphs written and ninety minutes later, we're still real good, thank you.&nbsp; Just breathing and breathing and Christian music and the fan humming white noise.&nbsp; My fingers tapping&nbsp;on the keyboard as&nbsp;my mind floods with memories.&nbsp; Scotch and water before Saturday grocery shopping.&nbsp; Lawrence Welk on the&nbsp;TV and&nbsp;Englebert Humperdink on the hi-fi.&nbsp;My Gramps painting her nails for her and laughing as she waved them in the air like&nbsp;windmills to dry them.&nbsp; Alfred Dunner slacks in "petique" because they fit just right.&nbsp; Gold "tongs" from Hawaii that she wore on her feet in the summer.&nbsp; The bellow: "My kitchen is closed for the night!"&nbsp;as my Gramps and I raided the freezer for ice cream.&nbsp;&nbsp; Monday was warsh day.&nbsp; Warsh - not wash.&nbsp; She was born in Mizz-or-rah.&nbsp; Her birth certificate says her first name is Lola.&nbsp; She loved my dogs.&nbsp; She&nbsp;worshiped&nbsp;my daughter and bragged to everyone about my son.&nbsp; My husband is "the only one who does right by her".&nbsp; She was the most meticulous person I ever knew.&nbsp; Heaven is about to be a hell of a lot cleaner.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">It's 3am now. Her legs are cool and mottled. I wonder what is&nbsp;happening&nbsp;in the place she's in right now? Is she seeing the people she loves? Is there really no pain? Is she reliving the moments that made up her life? Her breathing has become more shallow. I catch myself holding my own breath, willing her to go and be at peace. &nbsp;She looks so tiny in this bed. &nbsp;The sheets are soft, and for that I am grateful. &nbsp;No one should have to die on crappy hospital sheets. &nbsp;I finally put my iPod on so I can hear Roxy Music instead of Adult Christian. &nbsp;I knew that station would wear out it's welcome eventually. &nbsp;It's hot in here, and I wish for the millionth time it was spring so I could open a window. &nbsp;The moon is gorgeous and full, and Beth would be the first to tell me that Mercury is in retrograde. &nbsp;I didn't even need the website to tell me that. &nbsp;I will miss sharing our daily horoscope with Nana. I will miss her telling me I was the best birthday present she ever got. &nbsp;I will miss our wine and wheat thins. &nbsp;This is a friend that is so hard to let go. &nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">This is a life well lived.&nbsp; This is a person well loved.&nbsp; I will miss her more than she will ever know.&nbsp; I will treasure this night alone with her for the rest of my days.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I will be <em>real good</em> again someday, because that is how she would want it.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;"></span><br />~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-80535851270406071962013-02-01T03:03:00.001-05:002013-02-01T11:23:11.124-05:00Words that suck.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Once a month, I have the honor (privilege, utmost joy, anticipatory glee) of four hours of art with five fabulous women. &nbsp;Our evenings have been dubbed Luna Night, as we hold our summits on or around the full moon. &nbsp;It is, without a doubt, one of my favorite things in the universe. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">We are a diverse group who, without even&nbsp;trying, simply connected.&nbsp; It's a rare subject that is taboo with the Luna Crew.&nbsp; It's a given that I will drive home with cheeks that hurt from laughing and a brain full of ideas to pound out on the keyboard.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">That's when I thank the stars for Evernote, a snappy little app that allows me to temporarily dump my thoughts into a vault,&nbsp;thus reducing the number of expletives that flow from my mouth when I have forgotten yet another good idea.&nbsp; On the way home from Luna Night, I babble away into my talk to text and marvel as my words are magically&nbsp;transcribed onto a&nbsp;cyber notebook for lock down until I am ready to write.&nbsp;&nbsp;Evernote:&nbsp;my little helper, and highly recommended for the "over 40&nbsp;everyone has sucked my brain cells dry" set.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I'm sure there are women out there whose Evernote is loaded with reminders such as: "Call Bitsy from the Junior League about the Spring Fling" or "Look for Swan's Down flour to make&nbsp;that cake Another Pinner says is genius".&nbsp; My Evernote, however is streamlined into: write this, hear this, see this, and do this.&nbsp; I have no&nbsp;patience for cupcakes and The Lunas are&nbsp;my own personal Junior League and in all honesty lately&nbsp;the "to-do" that is peck-peck-pecking at my brain is "go write something".&nbsp; So, in honor of Evernote and the downward spiral of the Luna's last conversation; let's visit: Words I Despise.&nbsp; </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Have you ever noticed that you have an aversion to certain words?&nbsp; As the Luna Crew huddled around Moe's fireplace at our last meeting, someone mentioned the word Hubby, then laughed as I cringed.&nbsp; "What's wrong with&nbsp;Hubby?"&nbsp;I was asked.&nbsp;&nbsp;And as I stared blankly into the fire, I realized I couldn't even come up with a rational reason.&nbsp; I just plain hate the word.&nbsp; </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I am pretty sure Facebook sealed the deal for me.&nbsp; Posts like "Ooooh, love my Hubby, he just ran a bubble bath for baby Everdeenkatniss. &nbsp;How precious is that?" make me want to barf in&nbsp;technicolor.&nbsp;&nbsp;People&nbsp;think they're&nbsp;jacking it to hipster level by saying "The Hubs",&nbsp;but&nbsp;that term makes the bile rise for me too.&nbsp; The only person on Earth I allow to&nbsp;say&nbsp;"Hubby" around me is Nana, and that is only because she has dementia and I love her and she can say whatever she wants. &nbsp;Please, everyone except Nana, can we just say husband?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Moist. Do I even have to explain? What a vile word. &nbsp;Anything that can describe a cake and your underpants at the same time is wrong on every level. &nbsp;The End. Which leads me to:</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Panties. Ick ick ick. &nbsp;I am 100% certain a man invented the word panties. &nbsp;I am 95% sure he was a pedophile. &nbsp;When a 60 something year old woman asked me to "help her off with her panties so she could make a potty" I practically peed my own scrubs. &nbsp;Underpants. &nbsp;So. Much. Better. &nbsp;Utilitarian. Practical. &nbsp;Wear them or not, your call, just don't say panties to me if we are going to take them off and...</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Make Love. <i>What is wrong with me</i>? &nbsp;Isn't that supposed to be a beautiful thing? Yet when I hear the term "make love" all I can think of is being 8 years old and drawing fifty sloppy hearts over a picture of my parents for Valentine's Day. &nbsp;I titled it: <i>&nbsp;Make Lots of Love on Valentine's Day</i>. &nbsp;I could not for the life of me&nbsp;understand&nbsp;why it disappeared from the&nbsp;refrigerator&nbsp;door, never to be seen again. &nbsp;Scarred for life, I prefer the down and dirty term that starts with F.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">And if I am going to get down and dirty, I refuse to do it with my "soul mate". &nbsp;Now there's a term coined by a desperate woman if I ever heard one. &nbsp;In the immortal words of Carrie Bradshaw "I don't know if I even believe in soul mates". &nbsp;Husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, lover - all&nbsp;encompassing, solid words. &nbsp;No soul mates allowed in bed taking off my panties and making love to me, please.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Hey! &nbsp;Let's hit up the Pinterest Pinheads for my next one, which is actually a two-fer. "Upcycle" and "Repurposed". &nbsp;The red wiggly line underneath these words as I edit is shivering in word-correct fervor, desperate to remind me that THESE ARE NOT REAL WORDS! And I could not agree more. &nbsp;Throw those two in the compost bin along with the always inane "Mani-Pedi" with your "Bestie". &nbsp;All I visualize there is a couple washed up giddy cheerleaders annoying the hell out of me while I try to have sixty minutes of peace and a cute set of toes. Have we become so lazy that we cannot even take the time to enunciate an entire word?&nbsp; I fear we have. &nbsp;And a nation of grammatically lazy children are coming up fast on our heels. To me, that's a tragedy.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Time to shut it down. &nbsp;I know there are more words and phrases out there just waiting their turn to make my list, and the play we got from Moist Panty Cakes on Luna Night was well worth the nails on a blackboard effect in my head. &nbsp;The moral of the story, for me anyway, ended up being "Don't have a Big Hairy Gazebo over Moist Panty Cakes". &nbsp;But that's another story.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Long live the Lunas, kicking Junior League Ass from coast to coast. &nbsp;You girls are my <strike>soul mates</strike>&nbsp;<strike> besties</strike>&nbsp;the bomb.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-13203154232840398242013-01-07T10:57:00.003-05:002014-01-07T15:39:55.514-05:00An Open Letter to My Children...<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Dear Travis and Casey,</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I am an old mom now. &nbsp;My facebook walls are loaded with pictures of babies, sometimes ad nauseum, yet I &nbsp;understand. &nbsp;I remember back when you were tiny, how I wanted to share you with the whole world. How your blank, milk-drunk stare was&nbsp;different; cuter, <i>better </i>than the other babies. How I used to stare at you and wonder what in the world could be going through your mind? &nbsp;What were you trying to accomplish? What hurt? &nbsp;What made you happy? &nbsp;What the hell was I going to <i>do</i> with you?</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I like now. &nbsp;Now is better for me. &nbsp;Now, I just look at your face and I know. &nbsp;I know when you are happy, when you hurt, and what you are trying to accomplish, although I still sometimes question what the hell I am going to do with you. &nbsp;I <i>know</i> you. &nbsp;And I like you, which is all I ever really wished for. &nbsp;Every mom loves their children, but not every mom can say she likes them.</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>There are&nbsp;different&nbsp;types of moms all around us. &nbsp;There are Pusher Moms. &nbsp;They push for achievement. They push for the best grades, the best coaches, the best teams and they put themselves front and center to earn their kids a coveted place in the world they believe their child is <i>entitled</i> to. &nbsp;There are the Whirly Moms, hovering constantly over their kids. They don't allow them to ride on the scary bus and are involved with every school function, reminding us that they're&nbsp;<i>always there </i>and<i>&nbsp;so in touch with their child. &nbsp;</i>Let's not forget&nbsp;the<i>&nbsp;</i>Martyr Moms, who complain about the endless driving and fundraising and practices and money that they pour into their kid's activity. &nbsp;(While their kid confides to friends that they hate the activity but aren't allowed to quit). &nbsp;There are the Couch Moms, who light another smoke and flip to another channel while their kids wander the neighborhood, eating homemade cookies in the Whirly Mom's spotless kitchen, wondering how they drew the short straw. </b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>So many types of Moms. &nbsp;Yet you ended up with me.</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>You tell me I am not like the other moms, and I suppose I take that as a compliment. &nbsp;I didn't sign up for this to be your pal, or to put us in the poor house attempting to make you the next big thing. &nbsp;I am willing to take the hit and be the Mean Mom, especially if my actions will ultimately make you a better person. &nbsp;I have bit my tongue to not swear at the coach who disregarded you in favor of a showboat. &nbsp;I have sat on my hands to refrain from punching those who made you feel scared instead of welcome. &nbsp;I already&nbsp;suffered&nbsp;through primary school, so I temper the amount of time I spend there. &nbsp;It's your school, not mine, and I wonder how will you ever learn to take pride in it while parents are busy posturing there. &nbsp;I burn stuff. &nbsp;I oversleep. &nbsp;I make mistakes. &nbsp;I watch you fall. &nbsp;Sometimes I help you up, and sometimes I hold back while you find your own way back to your feet. </b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I do this because <i>you are my world</i>. &nbsp;You are my world in a world that I am not sure I like very much, so I look to you to help change it.</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I watch you both growing up and walking a path that your dad and I tried to prepare you for. &nbsp;I beam with pride when you look my friends in the eye and carry on a conversation with them, instead of skulking down the stairs without saying hello. &nbsp;I marvel at your grades and your&nbsp;commitment&nbsp;to school, something that I never had until I was an adult and my hand was forced. Yes, you make me proud while at the same time I go&nbsp;ballistic over the&nbsp;ridiculous amounts of snack food I vacuum from the couch cushions. &nbsp;If Dad had a dollar for every time he endured a rant about The Pig People We Made I would be writing this from my&nbsp;palatial&nbsp;estate in&nbsp;Belize.&nbsp;</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>So, Travis and Casey, here we are. &nbsp;One of you in the middle of college, one of you just starting Middle School. &nbsp;You like each other. &nbsp;You like us. You like life. &nbsp;This is more than I ever could have prayed for. &nbsp;You are what keeps me going when I am exhausted and beaten down by the things around me. &nbsp;You are what I think of when I put restraints on an angry teenager hammered out of his mind. &nbsp;You are what I think of when I care for the suicidal 14 year old with cutter lines road mapping her arm. &nbsp;I don't know how they got to the place they're in, and I am not blind to the fact that it could happen to me, which is why I never stop trying my best for you. &nbsp;You are my refuge from the sorrow in this world. &nbsp;If &nbsp;every kid out there were shown the feelings we have for you, the world might be less despondent. To that end I challenge you to be a friend to someone who may not be a part of your circle. &nbsp;Show kindness to someone who doesn't normally get to experience it. &nbsp;You are smart enough to know what works, and we like to think we are smart enough to back your choices. &nbsp;We made you, and that made the world a better place. &nbsp;Now it's your turn to pass it on. &nbsp;Go now, and be amazing.</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Love and Snack Food Crumbs,</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>&nbsp;Mom</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><u>Disclaimer:</u> &nbsp;This post does not give you permission to make new people. &nbsp;New people are costly, stressful and not an option at this juncture. &nbsp;Also, if either one of you ever show up for an audition of the Bachelor or Bachelorette, I shall cut you.</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-32258767140468300682012-09-26T12:38:00.003-04:002012-11-07T07:46:49.872-05:00Plan B<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Do you remember your dream?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />You know, the one you had where you went down the aisle, stepped out into the sunshine and began the book of your life?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />If that book had a name, what would it be?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">When posed that question by a friend yesterday, I barely hesitated. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Twenty years ago, I would have named mine "Living the Dream".</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />&nbsp; If I were to name my book now, twenty years later, I would call it: &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"Living Plan B".&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />Plan A was <i>The Dream</i>. &nbsp;Living the Dream. &nbsp;The house, some kids, the part-time-just-a-couple-days-a-week job that would keep me on my toes, get me out of the house and keep me in the work force<i> just</i> enough. &nbsp;The learning to cook and meals on the table when he came home at night to a spotless house, a cocktail and sparkling conversation. &nbsp;It was all I knew, passed down from generations and watched on TV as my little kid brain was forming big adult plans. June Cleaver, Alice Kramden and Nana; my role models for wifedom. <i>&nbsp;I could do this,</i> I thought. &nbsp;<i>I can do anything</i>. &nbsp;Life is beautiful.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />Enter Plan B.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />Plan B is where the hours in a day fly by like an F-14 while I scramble to clean up, struggle to maintain a budget, work like a dog just to keep the "starter home" we still occupy&nbsp;<i>two decades</i> later, cook when I feel guilty, and make a valiant attempt at being a decent wife to the man I stepped out into the sunshine with. &nbsp;The two kids, while desperately wanted and fiercely loved, added lines to my face and pounds to my ass that never appeared in the 1991 version of <i>The Dream</i>. &nbsp;Also found on the cutting room floor were the parts where&nbsp;I pick a thankless, mentally exhausting career,&nbsp;the economy tanks, I care for a 95 year old with dementia and I spend my days off spinning my wheels in a haze of coffee and sleep deprivation. &nbsp; Plan B is where I wonder, sometimes hourly, when the hell we are <i>ever</i> going to catch up, let alone get ahead.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />Damn you, Plan B.</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The honest, kick you in the balls side of me says: &nbsp;Yep, Princess, not how you planned it, is it? &nbsp; &nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Can't handle the curve? &nbsp;Can't suck it up? &nbsp;Boo hoo for you. You made your bed, now take a nap in it. &nbsp;&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Princess side of me doesn't often rear it's whiny little&nbsp;entitled head. But today as the rain falls and I read about people who walked away from their homes getting $3000 checks to "help them start over" I get really, really pissed.&nbsp;&nbsp; I flame about busting my ass to pay the mortgage, juggling bills like a circus freak to get out of debt, going to work each night to care for the "disabled" 30 year old opening a purse I could never afford to hand me their 'caid card, demanding I get them a prescription for motrin because "it's only a dollar on my insurance." &nbsp;I field five or ten phone calls a day from Nana, who has spiraled downhill and is now like having a stubborn toddler to care for. &nbsp;I remind myself that I still have fifty pounds to lose and I should be taking better care of myself. &nbsp;I tell myself that I can't afford a stroke. &nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I consider medical marijuana.&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;I consider non-medical marijuana. &nbsp;I hug my dog. &nbsp;I cry a little.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">&nbsp;Then I start writing the Sequel to Plan B, because Whiny Princess is not my idea of a good Leading Lady.</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I ponder the people who live on the street, in cars, and under the freeway overpasses. I remember the friends I had that never got the chance to have a Plan B. &nbsp;I think about single moms who work three jobs and spend every minute fearing that someone is going to hurt their children while they're out trying desperately to support them. &nbsp;I think of the friends I have who battle with angry children and have gotten crushed by spouses that left them alone and broken. &nbsp;I feel embarrassed that I even consider that I might have a rough life.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I refill my empathy tank by playing loud music, dancing in my kitchen, and pouring a glass of whatever moves us to share with the man that is also starring in Plan B. &nbsp;I celebrate years of happy memories. &nbsp;I look at the things in my home that I worked hard for, things that make me happy. &nbsp;I sneak to the door and listen through it while my daughter has her vocal lesson, thanking God I can afford her the opportunity to let her beautiful, perfect voice grow and shine. &nbsp; I hug my dog. &nbsp;I cry a little. &nbsp;I look at the one wedding picture I liked in it's frame on the table, and I step out into the sunshine.</span></span></div>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-69136739180648562972012-09-19T03:25:00.003-04:002012-10-10T18:26:21.317-04:00Ode to The Donald. A story for ER nurses.<span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: large;">I revisted some old drafts tonight, and stumbled across this one.&nbsp; It's way past Nurse's Week, but I guarantee somewhere in the Metro Detroit area, my subject is well into his second or third pint of the day.&nbsp; Here's to you, Donald.</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">In my constant attempt to lighten people up on Facebook, I posted a request to send me a smile, a memory or a joyful thought. &nbsp;What I received was exactly that. &nbsp;My friends reminded me of some of the funniest moments I witnessed as a nurse, as well as some thoughts that allowed me to reflect on seventeen years in a profession that is NOT for the faint of heart. </span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">With National Nurse's Week approaching, I want to share with you the&nbsp;glue that holds us together; mentally, physically, and emotionally; as we practice the World's Second Oldest Profession.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">I have written in the past about Stump Thumper, Groping Dead Man, and a few other memorable clients, but I have never shared with you my all time favorite patient:&nbsp;The Donald.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Donald &nbsp;is a professional, much like The Donald that you already have etched in your mind. &nbsp;He has bad hair, a booming voice,&nbsp;his own&nbsp;sense of style and often holds audiences rapt as he works a room. &nbsp;My Donald, however is not a wealthy&nbsp;financier.&nbsp;My Donald's home is the street and his prized possessions include empty Mohawk&nbsp;liquor bottles, a collection of hospital slippers, and numerous cast offs from my husband's "I can't wear these anymore" pile. &nbsp;On any given day, The Donald identifies himself as a Doctor, The President, or Jack Nicholson's Brother. &nbsp;He has braved the elements for many years now, and as anyone who lives in Michigan knows, being homeless here is no picnic. &nbsp;He lives daily at an alcohol level that most of us would die from,&nbsp;the kind&nbsp;that college boys lie to their frat&nbsp;brothers&nbsp;about. &nbsp;The Donald - forever etched in my heart.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">It could be the busiest night in the universe at Hospital Z - a nuts to butts night as I used to call it. &nbsp;People lined up from hell to breakfast in hallways, triage bays, and waiting rooms.&nbsp;As the Triage&nbsp;Coordinator Nurse I was responsible for all of them. &nbsp;The ambulances were told "traumas, pediatrics and criticals only" but they pretended they never got that&nbsp;dispatch and would whoosh through the ambulance bay with a smug smile, knowing we had no choice but to take their patient, space or no space.&nbsp;Family members would approach me as I held my head in my hands, frantically trying to see if one of my colleagues could take "just one more" and stay within range of keeping their nursing license.&nbsp; "Oh nurse," they would say,"My father (mother, brother, lesbian lover, baby daddy...) has been here&nbsp;two (three, four, eighty) hours... just <em>when</em> are you going to do something about that?"&nbsp; Then they would try to stare me down as &nbsp;I struggled not to make a fist and punch them in the throat.&nbsp;&nbsp;It always seemed that just when&nbsp;I was at breaking point - ready to&nbsp;throw down my pen, yank off my badge and walk out the door, I would hear him - or more accurately, smell him as he blew through the ambulance bay on his stretcher-throne.&nbsp; Waving to his public and insisting "I used to be a doctor here."&nbsp;EMS&nbsp;deposits his three garbage bags of crap and &nbsp;uncerimoniously dumps him onto a gurney.&nbsp; "He's all yours, Kimi." they would say with a smile.&nbsp; No report necessary.&nbsp; It was probably less than a day or two since he had been there last.&nbsp; I knew more about The Donald's whereabouts than I did my own kids.&nbsp; This is what happens to homeless alcoholics, people.&nbsp; They are like a pinball getting bounced from ER to ER to alley to city limit. Never, ever, winning.&nbsp; No one wants them in <em>their </em>backyard. </span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">The Donald was, in a way, the perfect patient.&nbsp; Stench aside, he was grateful, happy to be somewhere warm and more than willing to entertain the audience of waiting triage patients.&nbsp; He was easily pacified by my response of "maybe someday" when he asked&nbsp;when he would get a bed.&nbsp; He didn't threaten&nbsp;to tell&nbsp;his neighbor "the CEO of the hospital" about the shoddy care he felt was receiving as the true emergencies trumped him.&nbsp; (Don't even bother with that one, people.&nbsp; The more name dropping you do, the less we care.)&nbsp; I loved The Donald because he was happy to just <em>be</em>.&nbsp; He reminded me of a hyper little preschooler, asking a million&nbsp;questions and parroting everyone around him. &nbsp;Sometimes, to keep him occupied,&nbsp;we would&nbsp;give him a cell phone, dial up&nbsp;former nurses&nbsp;and let Donald leave messages on their voicemail.&nbsp; "Hello, Ellie?&nbsp; It's me Don!&nbsp; Hello?&nbsp; Ellie?&nbsp;&nbsp;Where did she go?" as we&nbsp;laughed hysterically in the background. Just a little&nbsp;voice from nightmare jobs past.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">I cannot tell you the number of times I sifted through The Donald's belongings wearing a Hazmat suit, finding&nbsp;citations for public intoxication,&nbsp;napkins from Starbucks, Watchtower magazines, (apparently the Jehovahs will even hit up a cardboard box house) and discharge instructions from the six area hospitals he rotated through.&nbsp; The&nbsp;discharge&nbsp;instructions would always make me laugh:&nbsp; YOU ARE BEING TREATED TODAY FOR ALCOHOL INTOXICATION.&nbsp; YOU MUST STOP DRINKING IMMEDIATELY!!!</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">As if.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">After the securing of Donald's "valuables", I would bribe&nbsp;a couple&nbsp;friends to help me strip him.&nbsp; On one memorable occasion, layer number&nbsp;nine came off to&nbsp;reveal a slinky purple nightie against his otherwise naked skin.&nbsp; "Please!" cried Donald, "Don't take&nbsp;the nightie, it's my favorite."&nbsp;&nbsp; "Donald," I asked, "<em>Where</em> did you <em>get</em> this beautiful nightie?"&nbsp; Looking at me with a beaming toothless smile, he replied "The Dumpster at&nbsp;Lover's Lane."&nbsp; And as you may have guessed, I let Donald go back to area C in his purple nightie, fresh slippers over his blackened frostbit toes and Elmer Fudd hunting cap on his head.&nbsp; It was a beautiful thing.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">One night, The Donald came in at 2am on a night that was eerily quiet.&nbsp; It was a couple days before Christmas, and apparently the public was saving their "emergencies" for later, when they were done&nbsp;with their&nbsp;festivities.&nbsp; It was well below freezing, and Donald was lacking in clothes.&nbsp; Someone had robbed him and he had been turned away at the Salvation Army because, well, they don't take drunks.&nbsp;He was a mess.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">Maybe it was because it was the holidays, maybe we were bored, but I like to think it's because we&nbsp;ER nurses are like The Grinch -&nbsp;possessing a big heart that is&nbsp;hidden under&nbsp;protective scar tissue.&nbsp; Whatever the reason, we decided that The Donald was going to have a spa day.&nbsp; We sprang into action, grabbing toiletries, towels,&nbsp;and basins.&nbsp; We put Donald in the Decontamination Shower, soaped him up, had him brush his&nbsp;six teeth and wash his dirty hair.&nbsp; We gave him lotion from our stash and in a short time, had him smelling like Midnight Pomegranate, Sensual Amber or some other restricted hospital&nbsp;fragrance.&nbsp; Shirley took one for the team and gave him a pedicure while I found some trauma shears and gave him a haircut, "the first he had gotten in years", he said.&nbsp;&nbsp;Donald smiled and cried and closed his eyes while we fussed over him like a bride, telling him how handsome he looked and that&nbsp;he should shape up and find himself a sugar mama.&nbsp; When we were done we covered him up with warm blankets and put him in the Psychiatric Seclusion room so he could sleep in peace until he was somewhere close to sober,&nbsp;until we kicked him back to the street again.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">But that wasn't all.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">While we had been playing Steel Magnolias,&nbsp;other staff had been passing the hat and hitting up the doctors for a shopping spree.&nbsp; Taking advantage of a 24 hour Meijer, Lizz&nbsp;purchased boots, hunting socks, long underwear, gloves and a new hat for The Donald.&nbsp; We fished a coat out of the clothing closet (a.k.a. the Bum Bin), and set to work making a Christmas for The Donald.&nbsp; We wrapped our gifts in Christmas paper and made a card.&nbsp; The night progressed, and before day shift came in, we woke The Donald and told him that Santa had came.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">I will someday be decrepit and demented&nbsp;in my own little world, but I hope I never forget the reaction that Donald had.&nbsp; The joy on his face when he realized that <em>there were presents</em>&nbsp; and <em>they</em> <em>were for him</em>!&nbsp; was one of the most beautiful moments I have ever&nbsp;experienced as a nurse.&nbsp; He unwrapped his gifts&nbsp;carefully with shaking hands,&nbsp;ooohing and ahhhhing as he put&nbsp;everything on.&nbsp;&nbsp;We gave him his discharge papers, crossing out "YOU&nbsp;ARE INTOXICATED" and replacing it with "MERRY CHRISTMAS DONALD!"&nbsp;&nbsp;We loaded him up with Christmas cookies and we&nbsp;sent him on&nbsp;his way, feeling quite full of ourselves&nbsp;and our grand gestures.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">I would like to tell you that The Donald went into rehab, became sober and is now an investment banker.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">But I won't.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">Because the ER isn't Disney World, no matter what&nbsp;administration is trying to sell us.&nbsp; The ER is real, mean, ungrateful and really ugly at times.&nbsp; You probably aren't going to get a "WOW" experience when you hit our doors, and for that you can thank your fellow man; who stretches us thin with non-emergencies and abuse of the system.&nbsp;We&nbsp;have been&nbsp;beaten down quite well, thank you very much.&nbsp;&nbsp;But&nbsp;still we try.&nbsp; And we never stop laughing.&nbsp; Especially when The Donald came back two days later,&nbsp;without his new boots and socks.&nbsp; His response when we asked him where they went? "I traded the boots for some good vodka&nbsp;and boy those socks, they wipe your butt right clean&nbsp;after a good dump".</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">God bless The Donald, and God Bless&nbsp;ER nurses everywhere.</span></span>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-53149655490209676642012-08-07T10:16:00.002-04:002012-09-19T10:22:40.133-04:00Tri-ing Again - Part Two (as in, read Part One First)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EmQN-MP5jhs/UCAg5ECoFKI/AAAAAAAAASA/mxl1nW83sZs/s1600/IMAG0730.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="164" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EmQN-MP5jhs/UCAg5ECoFKI/AAAAAAAAASA/mxl1nW83sZs/s320/IMAG0730.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>The best part of a triathlon, in my limited experience, is the part where you stand still, and just take it all in.<br /><br />Every size and shape, the bright colors, the palpable excitement; it's intoxicating. &nbsp;It doesn't matter if you are there to win it or there to just finish it, at this moment in time you are all the same - you are triathlon participants. <br /><br />I stood there with my bike, looking over the lake, the cemetery, the flags, the buoys and the transition area. &nbsp;I took a deep breath and I spent a moment just loving life. The times that I thought I would never be an athlete again got pushed out of my head, and I replaced it with thoughts of being strong, persevering and conquering. &nbsp;Bill always tells me "Be Here Now". &nbsp;For a change, I was.<br /><br />Moe and I unloaded our things in the&nbsp;transition area and headed toward the lake to warm up. &nbsp;Since the water temp was at 82 degrees, wet suits were declared unnecessary and people wearing them were warned that they would be tolerated but not eligible for awards. &nbsp;Personally, I would die of heat stroke in a wet suit in 82 degree water but I guess that is just me.<br /><br />The<i> next</i> best part of a triathlon? &nbsp;The part where you spot "Your People".&nbsp;Seeing Bill and Casey walking down the hill toward me was calming and exciting at the same time. &nbsp;The last time I did a triathlon, in 2000, Casey was (unbeknownst to me) growing in my belly. &nbsp;Now here she was, dancing down the hill wearing the shirt Travis wore that day 12 years ago that said "My Mom Tri's". &nbsp;Double entendre totally intended. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-67H-Hd4A5dU/UCAjNOJqf7I/AAAAAAAAASY/Ni9E8acSDXU/s1600/my+mom+tris.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-67H-Hd4A5dU/UCAjNOJqf7I/AAAAAAAAASY/Ni9E8acSDXU/s320/my+mom+tris.jpg" width="201" /></a></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; She had highjacked my race shirt and created this masterpiece:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LWC-LMGMw0A/UCAhCM_aE_I/AAAAAAAAASI/fIYJq78SNSQ/s1600/IMAG0731.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="219" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LWC-LMGMw0A/UCAhCM_aE_I/AAAAAAAAASI/fIYJq78SNSQ/s320/IMAG0731.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp;With my crappy Danskin issued latex swim cap and my beautiful shirt, I was ready to roll.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br />We lined up for the swim, Moe and I in the front with all intentions of heading to the right and staying out of "the Pack". &nbsp;I am comfortable in one thing - my swimming ability. &nbsp;I know how to swim in open water and have thousands of hours logged in the pool for the last 35 years. &nbsp;This was my happy place. I <i>wanted</i> this part. They counted it down, and we were off. &nbsp;I am the one by the right buoy.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iHiWHEdzjds/UB_znCA8xjI/AAAAAAAAARw/7kGjiTo2z7U/s1600/015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iHiWHEdzjds/UB_znCA8xjI/AAAAAAAAARw/7kGjiTo2z7U/s320/015.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />After clearing that buoy people start to find their spot. &nbsp;I stayed right to make way for stronger swimmers to pass, and as I did, I caught a hefty kick in the ribs from the person in front of me. I sucked in a huge mouthful of water and had I not been panicking about breathing, I would have laughed at the irony that the news report would read "Although a lifelong swimmer, she drowned 3 minutes into the tirathlon".<br /><br />I had serious regrouping to do, which I attempted by swimming breaststroke until I could take a normal breath again. &nbsp;My ribs were sore but were taking a back seat to the ragged breaths I was taking. &nbsp;It took me a quarter mile to recover in time to find that my damn cheap swim cap was coming off. &nbsp;I had chosen not to wear goggles, not wanting another thing to contend with, and I would stick with that choice in the future, but I will definitely go the two cap route next time around. That way if I lose the race cap, oh well, there is another underneath. &nbsp;That's about the only significant race advice you're going to get from me, so file it.<br /><br />I rounded the buoy and headed back, ending up 12th in my age group and visibly pissed off when I hit land. &nbsp;My happy place had not been at all happy, but I dropped that thought and headed for transition, only to feel a slap on my butt as Moe caught up and said "tag, you're it". &nbsp;I knew it was the last time I would see her for a couple hours, and I was so proud of how well she swam. &nbsp;She listened to every bit of advice I offered and put it to use, and then she proceeded to shine. &nbsp;Like any good swim coach, I was busting with pride.<br /><br />I had decided a long time ago to take this race and make it my own. &nbsp;I wanted to take extra time in transition to make sure my feet were dry, my socks were on right and I had everything I needed. &nbsp;Extra transition time goes against everything a true triathlete does, but it was important to me to not have to stop to adjust things. &nbsp;And I needed to breathe. <br /><br />I ran my bike to the start and hopped on. &nbsp;My past experience proved that you do not take a mountain bike to a triathlon so I had done some homework and visited the local bike shop to get fitted for a decent seat and hybrid tires. &nbsp;Wow, what a difference that made. &nbsp;I actually beat my bike time from 12 years ago, even though I was passed by 50+ &nbsp;people who either called out "on your left" or "Go Mom Go", reading the back of my Casey designed shirt. &nbsp;Of course I preferred the latter.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fB3cvUAMsPI/UCAhMClPLEI/AAAAAAAAASQ/K3lcaF8YXJo/s1600/IMAG0732.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fB3cvUAMsPI/UCAhMClPLEI/AAAAAAAAASQ/K3lcaF8YXJo/s320/IMAG0732.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><br />And because it's me - I am going to go on a little tirade here. &nbsp;In the bike leg, if there is an ENTIRE road open and I am ALREADY on the right of it, is it really necessary to scream "ON YOUR LEFT" as you pass me? &nbsp;I suspect not, and I suspect this is some sort of ego boosting, if-you-were-a-guy-you-would-have-a-boner sort of inflation you need to make yourself feel good. &nbsp;But me? &nbsp;I think you kind of suck. And I think you <i>truly</i>&nbsp;suck if you were the girls that never, not once, bothered to acknowledge the hundreds of people in bright green t shirts that came out on a Sunday morning to voluntarily cheer for YOU. &nbsp;I really don't think you lose precious seconds by flashing a smile, and believe me, you missed the whole point if you blew past these amazing fans without a thought. &nbsp;By the second bike loop, the older couple in their lawn chairs outside &nbsp;their house pegged me as there's "the girl who always smiles". &nbsp;I loved those people, and I appreciate everyone who volunteers for these type of things. You rock. <br /><br />The bike leg included the inevitable hills, and here was where I wished I could have an actual triathlon bike. &nbsp;Here is where I chatted myself up BIG TIME about how strong I was, how I was going to beat this hill and fly down, alternating with giggling because the "ON YOUR LEFT" screamers were now reduced to breathlessly panting it as they struggled by.<br /><br />At the bottom of the hill you turned right, and there was a parking lot to your left. &nbsp;It caught my eye because my favorite coffee shop; Biggby Coffee was there. &nbsp;As I was going past I saw a girl in red, jumping up and down and yelling "Go Kim, Go!". &nbsp;On closer inspection I saw that it was Susie, a nurse I worked with who lived in Howell and got up early on her Sunday morning to cheer. &nbsp;For me. &nbsp;<i>She came to cheer for me</i>. &nbsp;How awesome is that? &nbsp;Awesome enough for me to say it again - if you are ever considering volunteering or cheering someone on who is involved in any sort of big race, you should do it. &nbsp;You have NO idea how motivating it is to see a familiar face and how it kicks you into the gear you didn't think you had left. &nbsp;Susie Papson, I will never forget what you did for me. &nbsp;Thank you from the bottom of my heart.<br /><br />I finished the bike, thankful for the brick workouts Will had suggested. Previously my Old Lady Hip had been on fire after the bike, but the brick workouts taught me to work with it and move slower while stretching it out. Amazingly, Old Lady Hip was not giving me too much trouble. &nbsp;Whether adrenaline or intervention of the Gods, I thank her for taking the day off. &nbsp;I grabbed Moe's Made in Detroit hat (I used &nbsp;wedding rules for the tri - something borrowed, something blue etc.) and prepared to face my nemesis, The Run.<br /><br />There are people who catch the virus of running. &nbsp;It creeps up on them, as viruses do, and before they know it they are attacked and have the magical running virus. &nbsp;They embrace their new sport, sing it from the rooftops, post their times, and spread their new virus to everyone they know.<br /><br />Everyone except me, who apparently has been well vaccinated. I am immune to the running virus. &nbsp;But I press on, hoping that one day my tolerance will be low and I will catch it, thus becoming one of the Greyhound/Gazelle/Jamaican Sprinter runners I visualize as I slog through my miles. &nbsp;The same ones I am watching now, coming to the finish line as I start the last leg of my tri.<br /><br />Time to move, time for tunes. &nbsp;Digging around in the front of my bra I turned on my speaker and hit play. &nbsp;I am not stupid, I know this will never fly at future races and will never do it again, but today my music was a security blanket that I desperately needed. &nbsp;I fell into step, fell into breath and headed toward the cemetery with Amy Lee's strong beautiful voice drifting up from my boobs.<br /><br />I had three goals when I started the race that day. Number one was to finish. &nbsp;Number two was to smile the whole time and enjoy every moment. &nbsp;Number three was the most important to me. &nbsp;It was: never, ever to walk during the run. For me, it would not have seemed like I truly accomplished the tri if I walked the run. I respect that you have to do what you have to do, but this was my promise to myself, the part that made it real and the challenge I put up for the athlete that still resides in my heart. <br /><br />As I anticipated, Moe lapped me on my first pass through the cemetery. &nbsp;She warned me of a big hill that was at the end of the first loop and as she went by said "YOU. DO. NOT. WALK. THAT. HILL. Big long powerful strides up the hill. &nbsp;You Can DO THIS". &nbsp;And away she went, like a real gazelle. &nbsp;Long legs flying and looking like the runner she has been since I met her in high school. &nbsp;How totally appropriate that this was when the "FALK" headstone came into view. It needed to be done. So with the Beastie Boys playing from my boobs and the thought of the big hill ahead, I acknowledged the late Mr. Falk at the top of my lungs. &nbsp;And I felt pretty damn good about it. Sometimes you just need a good falk to make yourself feel better.<br /><br />Running, running, running over dirt, wood chips, gravel. &nbsp;I kept running. &nbsp;I ran up the big hill and down the big hill and smiled for the man who was wildly cheering for me as I entered the second and final loop. I read tombstones and ran for young people who didn't get the chance to run enough in their life. &nbsp;I ran for the people in pictures who smiled at me from their marble headstones. &nbsp;I just ran, and&nbsp;it felt really, really good.<br /><br />As I approached the road leading to the big hill, I was alone. &nbsp;A lot of people had passed me, and I wasn't really sad, just reflective about where I had been, and where I was now. &nbsp;I knew in my heart I could finish this, even if it was going to be alone, and well after the people I came here with. &nbsp;I looked up and saw a figure running the wrong way down the path, I wondered who would run the wrong way with everyone there to direct you. &nbsp;And I stopped wondering when I saw that it was Moe.<br /><br />She had finished. &nbsp;She had taken off her medal and her timing chip and she had come back to run. &nbsp;With me. &nbsp;She came to help me get over that hill, a reality and a metaphor at the same time. She came to be my friend.<br /><br />Up the hill I went for the last time that day. &nbsp;Up the hill as she reminded me all the things that hill represented. To the top of the hill as she reminded me that my husband and daughter were waiting for me. &nbsp;Down the hill as I cried for the first time that day. &nbsp;Down the path as we headed for the finish line together.<br /><br />I am crying as I type this. &nbsp;There are so many things in life that are uncertain, unhappy, emotionally and mentally draining. &nbsp;But when you know you have people in your corner that will never give up on you; how can you stop trying? &nbsp;As I ran toward the finish I promised myself to never stop trying. <br /><br />Our daughters came into view. &nbsp;Casey and Natalie, three months apart in age, polar opposites in looks, quite alike in whimsy. &nbsp;Jumping and screaming and waving a sign that as I got closer read "Go Mom Go!" with the appropriate 11 year old girl hearts, music notes and smiley faces plastered all over it. &nbsp;People on the hill at the finish clapping, cheering, pointing me to the end. &nbsp;The end, it was right in front of me. &nbsp;I just had to run a little more. &nbsp;I was tired, and like every single time I got tired that day, something happened to keep me going. &nbsp;That something was this:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XfX2EKhkv08/UCEVstLGXBI/AAAAAAAAASs/M73OvkZbm-M/s1600/028.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="345" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XfX2EKhkv08/UCEVstLGXBI/AAAAAAAAASs/M73OvkZbm-M/s400/028.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The Danskin People let our daughters and my friend help me bring it on home.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>So I did.<br /><br />I got my medal, looked for my husband and let the tears come. &nbsp;Just for a little bit, because those tears weren't sad ones. I let Bill's words into my head and stored them for future moments when I would need them to lift me up. &nbsp;I posed for the pictures and found my stuff and declined the invitation to go out to breakfast because at that point, I just wanted to go home and eat bacon there. &nbsp;Bill made me the best omelette I have ever had after a shower where I discovered the reason I did not run like a gazelle. &nbsp;A fat leech, stuck to my ankle, full of the amazing running ability that he had spent all morning sucking out of me.<br /><br />That's the story I'm going with, anyway.<br /><br />This is the end of my&nbsp;triathlon&nbsp;post. &nbsp;But it's also another chapter of my journey to being a healthier, happier Kim. &nbsp;And it very well may be the beginning of the book that's titled "You Too Can Get Your Shit Together at 47". &nbsp;I am off to start training again. &nbsp;I have a 10K to run on Thanksgiving, because everyone needs to own a Turkey Bitch. Wish me luck.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-35027457267468617312012-08-06T12:23:00.002-04:002012-08-14T13:41:19.732-04:00Tri-ing Again, Part One.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4mUaxIIUN7w/UB_tOy_hzzI/AAAAAAAAARg/fzCcff6BRtI/s1600/95842298289508247_mCHOCVNa_f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4mUaxIIUN7w/UB_tOy_hzzI/AAAAAAAAARg/fzCcff6BRtI/s320/95842298289508247_mCHOCVNa_f.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Last year at this time I had blown off the second triathlon I had signed up for.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was angry, dejected and bitter.&nbsp;How dare this surgery not have made me lose everything I wanted? &nbsp;How dare it be more successful for literally everyone around me that had it? &nbsp;How dare it be a year later and I am STILL fighting?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Reboot.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's now two years since my gastric sleeve surgery. I am still fighting. And if you are considering weight loss surgery, you need to know that it WILL NOT do all the work for you. &nbsp;It will not repair your head or the scabs on your heart. &nbsp;You will continue to be your own worst enemy unless you embrace that fact.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">However, two years later I realize that there is a difference between bitching about it and fighting for it. &nbsp;I remembered, painfully, that this had to be what<i>&nbsp;I </i>was going to make of it. &nbsp;Just me. &nbsp;This is me, evolving very slowly.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Often, I need a major face slap to knock my goals in line and take stock of the important things. &nbsp;I am fortunate to have some very strong women in my life that aren't afraid to do that for me. (I suspect they rock-paper-scissors with each other for the&nbsp;privilege). &nbsp;So when Moe sent me an email in the spring inviting me to participate in Danskin's Sprint Triathlon, I put some real thought into it. &nbsp;Her invitation included options - be the swimmer in a relay team, do the half sprint, do the whole tri, check out the website and decide. &nbsp;No pressure. This is the gentle version of the face slap, just so you know.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I clicked over to the site and pondered the choices, halting to a stop when I saw the "Athena" category, which I have pasted here for you:</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">&nbsp;<span style="background-color: white;">You WANT to be scored against women who are above 150 lbs (pursuant to USAT Rules for Athena)</span></span><br /><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You compete on an individual basis within your “age group” BUT you will be scored against all other participants (regardless of age) who checked off ATHENA when entering</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You will receive an Official Race time within the Athena category</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You will be eligible for Awards (top three) within the Athena category</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What. &nbsp;The. Hell.</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">150 pounds. &nbsp;Is fat. &nbsp;<i>If </i>you are a Danskin Triathlete. &nbsp;If you are <i>me</i>, it is your god damned goal weight. &nbsp;It is a size 8. &nbsp;It is I can buy the thong and walk through the neighborhood in it. &nbsp;It is my nirvana. &nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then and there, I clicked "Sprint Triathlon Age Group Category", dropped $100 bucks and a large amount of attitude along with it. &nbsp;Then I called Moe and said, "I am signed up, I am not swimming for anyone, I am not in the half sprint, I am not in the fatties race, I am in the sprint and I am going to OWN THIS BITCH.</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Big slap. &nbsp;BIG SLAP! &nbsp;Did you hear it? &nbsp;Because I felt it.</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And so it began. &nbsp;I bought the brightest funnest running shoes I could find.&nbsp;&nbsp;I found sites like this: &nbsp;<a href="http://plusrunner.com/">Plus Runner</a>&nbsp;- and read every entry&nbsp;.&nbsp;I stole the good goggles from my daughter. &nbsp;I built a playlist. &nbsp;I got new tires on the bike I rode 12 years ago, and thought about it, and got an awesome seat too. &nbsp;And then, I trained.</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I trained as "That Girl". &nbsp;The girl you see running slowly down the street in her baggy, un-runnerish clothing. The girl in the lane that you didn't think she should be in at lap swim. &nbsp;(Competitive swimmers get fat - but they don't forget how to swim). &nbsp;The girl who rode the bike endlessly around the mile track at the park because she wasn't ready for hills. &nbsp;The girl that you are glad you're not while you are driving by, but you hope she succeeds because at least, she is trying.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In between trying, I tried to fit life, work, and all the crap that comes with it. &nbsp;I was not always successful. &nbsp;I sometimes chose sleep over a run. &nbsp;I often chose alcohol the night before a training session, because drinks with my husband or friends are things I treasure and won't give up. &nbsp;I read and cheered as my friend's daughter <a href="http://pantslessinseattle.wordpress.com/2012/07/17/how-to-sherpa-an-ironman/">Alida</a>&nbsp;did a play by play of her own friend competing in&nbsp;(and conquering) his first Ironman. &nbsp;I was inspired. I decided that while I will never be an Ironman, I could definitely be a Sprint Triathlete again.</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The week before the tri was emotionally taxing. &nbsp;Since this post is not about that, I refer you to my prior one. &nbsp;The Friday before the race involved me coming off 4 days of work, 3 missed days of training and like a miracle - a morning run that gave me a glimpse of that elusive epiphany that makes people sign up for marathons. &nbsp;I don't love running. &nbsp;I never will. &nbsp;But damn, it works. &nbsp;Since starting to run I began losing weight again, my pants are looser and I feel my abdominal muscles. &nbsp; How did I celebrate this? &nbsp;By staying up with my husband, drinking Johnny Walker Black out of his Bladerunner rocks glass and talking until 3am. &nbsp;Sometimes the wrong decisions are the right ones in disguise.</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Four of us were racing together. &nbsp;Moe and her two friends Candace and Amy. We picked up our race packets Saturday and reviewed the course. &nbsp;We swam in the lake so we could get the muck and seaweed factor straight in our head. &nbsp;We walked the run, which led through a&nbsp;cemetery&nbsp;next to the lake. &nbsp;I noted that there was a stone that said "Falk" and decided when I was in the pain I &nbsp;</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">anticipated I&nbsp;</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">would be in at that point, I could yell "FALK" and blame it on reading tombstones if someone had a problem with it. &nbsp;A half mile down I found another stone that said "Fockstoff" and filed that one, too. &nbsp;I drove home and hydrated all day, because that is what &nbsp;</span><a href="http://www.watchwilltri.com/" style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">iWill - Ironman Rock Star</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; told me to do when he patiently answered my emails loaded with training questions. &nbsp;I hydrated a little more, to cover last night's JW Black debacle. &nbsp;I packed my bag. &nbsp;And just to calm my fears - I made a&nbsp;decision to stuff a little speaker with my iPod duct taped to it down my bra for the run. &nbsp;Sometimes you just need to break the rules a little and <em>all</em> the time - &nbsp;I just plain run better&nbsp;when there is&nbsp;music. The penalty for this infraction?&nbsp;Not being eligible for placement awards. &nbsp;Yeah, now you see why I wasn't that concerned.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I spent the night at Moe's, where I dreamed about whales swimming under me while I raced.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She woke me up at 4:30 with coffee (I just love that about her) and said "Let's do this". &nbsp;I ate my English muffin and canadian bacon and stopped at 2 cups of coffee (sorry, Will this is why you do the Ironman and I do not) and began the hydrating routine again. We took off - more awake than I have ever been at 5:30am. &nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I had stuffed all the anger I had built up over the last few days into the back of my head. Slowly, I tried to reprocess it and make it work to my advantage. &nbsp;</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;I smiled as I read the words Travis sent, sad that he would miss this but happy he had a job to go to. &nbsp;</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I thought strong thoughts. &nbsp;I thought about the people who loved me, who were texting me early on their Sunday morning to wish me luck and I breathed all that love in. &nbsp; I was as ready as I was going to get.</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5XtjPhJ-d9U/UCqNtI6x4qI/AAAAAAAAATA/LTyPSXPFT24/s1600/261842165805554593_b7wWd9iN_f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5XtjPhJ-d9U/UCqNtI6x4qI/AAAAAAAAATA/LTyPSXPFT24/s320/261842165805554593_b7wWd9iN_f.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-3481760684575222832012-03-07T10:02:00.001-05:002012-03-07T11:22:03.545-05:00The Velveteen Rabbit<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I study myself in the mirror a lot lately. &nbsp;I haven't written about my weight loss journey in a while, although it is moving along at the slow but steady clip I expected it to. I promise pictures and an update; soon. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I just don't want to write about that tonight, though. &nbsp;That's another post.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Tonight I want to write about growing up. &nbsp;Growing old. The other journey I am taking, like it or not.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Last night I took care of a beautiful 87 year old lady. &nbsp;I triaged her from the stretcher, where the EMS crew had carefully moved her; treating her with the respect and dignity she&nbsp;deserved. &nbsp;I am passionate about our elderly patients. &nbsp;They are the ones that have paid into this&nbsp;ridiculous&nbsp;system their entire lives. &nbsp;Too often they are treated like castaways, and people are too busy to take the time to care about them. &nbsp;But I do. &nbsp;My friend Michael says that the elderly are "little pieces of&nbsp;history", which I think is brilliant. &nbsp;I have a love for old people that keeps me at my job when I would much rather walk out the door and never look back.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">As part of my triage, I asked my beautiful patient how tall she was, pen poised to write the standard five foot six or so. &nbsp;When she replied "I am six feet tall", I paused and looked at her long legs hanging over the end of the stretcher and then looked her up and down. &nbsp;"I'm 145 pounds" she said, making me cringe at my goal weight number that I often feel I will never see again. &nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I stopped writing, put my pen in my pocket and said to her; "Miss P, you are a beautiful woman, have you always been six feet tall, or were you taller in your youth?" &nbsp;"Oh Baby," she said, "I was a dancer, I was six foot two inches, but age has robbed me of my full height.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Now I am getting shorter every year, and I just hate it."</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Age, the great equalizer. &nbsp;Someone walking by this woman, regarding her as an old lady on a stretcher, would see just that. &nbsp;But someone that had the pleasure of a conversation received a gift - the vision of a young, graceful dancer with her head held high, legs extended, arms regally moving like water through a stream. &nbsp;I know this because I could see it in her eyes. &nbsp;They sparkled. &nbsp;They danced. &nbsp;And I fell in love with yet another elderly patient; a little piece of history. &nbsp;The thing that keeps me in the door of nursing.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My body is changing. &nbsp;From the surgery, and from the great equalizer of age. &nbsp;I could be a&nbsp;pessimist and focus on the sags, the etch a sketch screen of stretch marks, the lines on my face, the hair that I cannot bring myself to let go gray. &nbsp;But I am a more forgiving person now. &nbsp;I see stretch marks that brought me babies and lessons and skin that survived the period of my life that taught me to keep fighting. &nbsp;The lines in my face? They came from smiling, definitely from laughing, and from the contentment of the things I love. The ever present coin slot between my eyebrows that presents when I am concentrating, sagging in defeat, darkened by anger or moved to tears by the sound of my daughter's singing. &nbsp;My scars are art - the composition of everything I am. &nbsp;And I can live with that.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">One of my favorite books is The Velveteen Rabbit. &nbsp;I believe that from reading it at a young age, I gained an understanding of what beauty really is. &nbsp;I want to share with you my favorite paragraph, because I believe it epitomizes the path to growing old and the reason you should find some peace in your lines and sags.</span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A3f_Jf6hhTM/T1d2rGhwBOI/AAAAAAAAAP0/aZVDyH1NwIw/s1600/velveteen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A3f_Jf6hhTM/T1d2rGhwBOI/AAAAAAAAAP0/aZVDyH1NwIw/s320/velveteen.jpg" width="235" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #211922; font-family: 'helvetica neue', arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Someday when I am old, I hope someone looks into my eyes and can see them dancing. &nbsp;&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-51587478259140111992012-02-17T14:48:00.000-05:002012-02-21T22:25:32.001-05:00My Right Brain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VK61BYrmHNQ/Tz6uciluIYI/AAAAAAAAAPg/dwZ8eJhV-_w/s1600/IMAG0542.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VK61BYrmHNQ/Tz6uciluIYI/AAAAAAAAAPg/dwZ8eJhV-_w/s320/IMAG0542.jpg" width="201" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I was not a noteworthy student when I was younger. &nbsp;The trilogy of sassy mouth, undiagnosed ADHD and Catholic school yielded a lot of "needs to improve" report cards. &nbsp;Math and Science were unbearable, English no fun because the nuns did not appreciate the candor in my stories. &nbsp;"Why can't you just follow directions?" my Dad would beg me. &nbsp;"Because it's boring and &nbsp;it doesn't make me laugh." was my response. &nbsp;"If you just try, you would get this." Dad would say as the numbers did the conga on the paper in front of me, trapped helplessly between my drawings of evil nuns and mermaids happily swimming in an ocean free of algebra.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Traditional school. &nbsp;It's not for everyone.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">When the screws were applied and tightened as I entered my nursing school prerequisites, I stepped up. &nbsp;Repeating essentially every math and science class I did poorly in during high school was something I can remember like it was yesterday. &nbsp;Tears splotching my algebra homework as Bill sat across from me at our kitchen table with the patience of a saint; trying to help me understand as the numbers did the conga between drawings of the dream garden I wanted to make someday and baby name ideas for the little person growing inside my belly. &nbsp;Even in college, I couldn't stop my pencil from straying to the margins and sketching my dreams.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The fact that I graduated in the top 10 of my nursing class told me that I <i>did</i> have it in me to succeed in school. &nbsp;The idea of more math, science, and God help me; management classes told me that I would be perfectly content without a Masters or even a Bachelors in Nursing. &nbsp; There's a reason they hire Diploma nurses, and it's because we hit the ground running and &nbsp;kick ass on the floor, always. &nbsp;I will never be ashamed of not having 13 acronyms after my name, and am often skeptical of the nurses that do. &nbsp;In a crisis, give me a fellow RN that knows her stuff, not someone that can spew theory while a patient dies in front of them.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Which brings me here. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">To the blank screen begging to be filled with my beloved words and ideas and freestyle grammar. &nbsp;My love of writing is quickly becoming a necessity as I struggle to find meaning in nursing circa Obamacare, 2012. &nbsp;I want, no, I <i>crave</i> a place that lets me unload and empty all the thoughts that act like conga numbers in my head. &nbsp;This is my margin. &nbsp;My sketch pad. &nbsp;My happy place.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My friend Moe did not sparkle on the academic front in high school either. &nbsp;She took the road less traveled and went to the College for Creative Studies in Detroit. &nbsp;My dream college. &nbsp;Together we share a love of creativity, art and all the things the Right Brain handles. &nbsp;Melissa is far, far more advanced than I in the art world, having built her own photography business with a loyal following for the last 13 years.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Melissa has a successful career, but last year, she had an epiphany. &nbsp;She did some searching and stripped her soul down to the core and decided that Professional photography was not all she wanted to accomplish in life. As a result she took a sabbatical from her business and is now experimenting in all things art to find a new passion. &nbsp;To say I am envious is an understatement, but I have learned that you can be envious and still love someone at the same time, so I rejoice with her over every "a-ha moment" and laugh with her over every failure. &nbsp;She is sketching in her margins, too. &nbsp;I have no doubt that she will end up in a better place.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I love to make jewelry, and a few years back I made a lot of it. &nbsp;That is, until people pissed me off and I stopped. &nbsp;Making and re-making something 5 times over because someone couldn't articulate&nbsp;what they wanted frustrated the hell out of me, and even worse, making a custom order of something I loathed gave me a pounding headache. &nbsp;People thinking I would repair things they broke for free (even if I hadn't made it) sent me over the edge completely, and I packed all my stuff away. Last &nbsp;summer my industrious husband took my box of sterling findings and beads to the "cash for silver" place and netted over a grand, while I fretted that my jewelry days would never come back. &nbsp;I missed my right brain activities.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My garden, taking and editing pictures, redecorating my home, and Pinterest inspired projects comfort me while I struggle to find my place in the grown up world. &nbsp; My birthday trip to the Detroit Institute of Arts&nbsp;inspired&nbsp;me to keep searching until I find the things that satisfy the creative bones in my body. &nbsp;My friend's gift of the Voodoo doll above that has "magical powers to inspire creativity" made me smile and promise myself not to give up on my dream of being a published writer. &nbsp;And last night, as I made a resin pendant in a jewelry workshop with Melissa, I realized that there is a great big world of untapped art that I need to experience. &nbsp;In the workshop, they encouraged you to make a small charm called a Patera using a word from a transfer sheet. &nbsp;I mentally disposed of "love" "dream" "wish" and, with a nod to the nuns who wanted me to "just conform", chose this:</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UoSEytfrmJw/Tz6tv9BQtXI/AAAAAAAAAPY/wP_YqrUp2Ls/s1600/IMAG0543.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UoSEytfrmJw/Tz6tv9BQtXI/AAAAAAAAAPY/wP_YqrUp2Ls/s320/IMAG0543.jpg" width="207" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I then laughed to myself as I thought of the million things I wanted to &nbsp;put in one of these pendants as I sat there faced with the limited paper and transfers offered to us. &nbsp;I realized at the moment that I am not done with jewelry after all.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Nursing is an art, I truly believe that. &nbsp;Once I struggled through the equations and Kreb's cycle and acid-base balances of a blood gas, &nbsp;I shelved them and concentrated on the part that involves caring, inspiring, teaching and love. &nbsp;This is an art I will never fully leave, but one that I need to back away from for a bit to make room for the things that will make me whole. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I love my right brain. &nbsp;I rely on Bill for the left brain stuff, so I am essentially all set. &nbsp;Now I just need to find my path, one little step at a time. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X0smNgQLeI0/Tz60MBRt6II/AAAAAAAAAPo/g1TKydjMWMw/s1600/right+brain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X0smNgQLeI0/Tz60MBRt6II/AAAAAAAAAPo/g1TKydjMWMw/s320/right+brain.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><br />~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-82686383422272583812012-02-09T23:17:00.000-05:002014-05-09T22:59:21.199-04:00The Lexicon of Lottery - A gift for Disgruntled Nurses<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I began to write a post a couple nights ago that I was just loving. Halfway through, I ran it by Bill, my go-to person on all things I just love because he has the gift of gently acknowledging my shortcomings. &nbsp;My beloved post was given the thumbs down for publication.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And I was pissed.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">God forbid, I wrote about work. Even without giving specifics, naming names or suggesting diagnosis, I was <strike>advised</strike>&nbsp; warned I shouldn't post it for fear of "losing your damn job".</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ya'll will have to sit on pins and needles until I hit the lotto and can write all I want about the mayhem and foolishness I've seen in my career. &nbsp;Do you ever do that? Daydream about hitting the lotto and what you would do when it happened? &nbsp;Ask any nurse what their plans include, and I bet the number one answer would be: </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">quit my job</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. &nbsp;I know that's mine. &nbsp;But we are funny, we nurses. &nbsp;After we took a vacation, drank to excess and found a home where we could live like hermits we would </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">still</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> find a way to take care of people. &nbsp;Because that's just how we are. &nbsp;We truly love people, it's just that we're wired to take only so much before our brains explode. &nbsp;After which Environmental&nbsp;"Services", being union, would remind everyone that cleaning up nurse grey matter is not in their contract. &nbsp;Because that's how they are.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br /></i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I<i>&nbsp;would </i>still take care of people, rest assured. &nbsp;And if I ever <i>do</i> hit the lotto I would take care of people I choose in the following ways:</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Kim's So Tired Hotel for Exhausted Night Shift Nurses</span></b></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Overworked? Underpaid? Haven't experienced REM sleep since 1992? &nbsp;Then step into a world of magical bliss, where you're greeted with adult beverages served by muscular, shirtless male models who tell you how pretty you are. &nbsp;Step into a steaming hot tub with Barry White crooning over the bumping Bose sound system. &nbsp;Relax while the Xanax mist envelopes you, encouraging your weary brain not to give a rat's ass about your employer's latest shenanigans. &nbsp;Wrap up in a soft fluffy robe then take to your bed dressed in 800 thread count sheets and down comforters. &nbsp;Be sure to eat the chocolate dipped Ativan on your pillow before you fall into 12 hours of dreamless heavenly slumber in your sound proof sleeping chamber. &nbsp;When you awaken, you'll feast on the finest chocolate croissants and all you can eat bacon in the garden room, where no one is allowed to speak until three cups of coffee have been consumed. &nbsp;A foot massage is mandatory before you step off into another day of spirit breaking abuse. &nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">To qualify for your free stay, you must be a non-administrative patient caregiver who has been called a bitch, slut or whore at least six times in the last week. &nbsp;Being bitten, punched or spit on by drunk/stoned/off their meds "clients" allows you an automatic upgrade to the Penthouse, where medical marijuana is at your disposal and a candlelight massage is offered every hour on the hour.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Jerry Springer Green Room</span></u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Dealing with a family of hysterical red necks? &nbsp;Have three or more visitors in pajama pants and braless camisoles? &nbsp;Tattoo to tooth ratio of 3:1 or better? &nbsp;Nurse Kim has you covered! &nbsp;Throw the whole crowd into the Jerry Springer Green room; a soundproof, padded arena equipped with a steel cage and burly WWE wannabes to control that hot mess. &nbsp;Pretend cameras are mounted on the ceilings to give occupants the sensation of being on reality television that they crave. Full sugar sodas and Little Debbie products are provided for your ill behaved, unvaccinated children's snacking needs. We'll even wash their nicotine &nbsp;infused coats for free before they go back to the home where "we only smoke outside".&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ready for discharge? Our purple windowless van transports everyone back to the double wide. &nbsp;Free Nascar or Nickleback tank tops to the first 20 visitors every Friday.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;The Jerry Springer Green Room's mission is to free medical staff from the throes of family drama so you can safely remove wallet chains, eagle necklaces and "Badass Beer" encrusted belt buckles in the tranquil environment you deserve.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><u><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Nana Brown Home for the Aged</span></b></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Welcome Seniors to the Nana Brown Memorial Home for the Aged. &nbsp;Our staff has been hand picked by a professional <strike>lackey</strike>&nbsp;granddaughter. Here you will find geriatric loving, English speaking nurses with functioning brain cells who truly enjoy caring for you and your repetitive requests.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In our happy, spacious building you will find a swimming pool for water aerobics (ornate flowery swim caps provided and encouraged), shuffle board, Canasta tables, rental dogs for you to cuddle, rental grandchildren to give hard candy to, and a beauty salon for those all important Thursday wash and sets. &nbsp;Daily bathing is provided and dentures are clearly labeled at night to prevent those awkward exchange mishaps.&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Pedicures available to male residents who sign a contract stating they will never get one in a public venue again.&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;Font on all reading material is set at 32 and&nbsp;continuous&nbsp;loops of the Price Is Right and Murder, She Wrote are shown in our ampitheatre.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our 9pm snack of ice cream with Ambien sprinkles is mandatory and your Craftmatic Adjustable Bed will be cranked up or down upon your arrival. &nbsp;Daily lectures include: &nbsp;Prevent the Beetus by Wilfred Brimley and You Too Can Live Like a Princess After 90 by the world famous Nana Brown.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">To qualify for admission, the approval board must meet your family and you must be willing to excommunicate them if we find them unsavory. &nbsp;No bitter old ladies or dirty old men need apply.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Kim's Respite Center for Freaked Out Moms</span></u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thought you could do it all? &nbsp;Realize you can't? &nbsp;Need a stroller free trip to Target? &nbsp;Looking for more than a&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">desperate&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">three minute grope session </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">with The Man before that kid needs something again?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Mommy Respite Center is at the ready to help you get your groove back. &nbsp;Toss that screaming child into the arms of loving, hearing impaired women who were gypped out of grandchildren of their own. &nbsp;Shop Target in peace while our pseudo grandmas rock and spoil your baby in a serene setting free of Baby Einstein videos and overstimulation. &nbsp;Our staff of retired NICU nurses are screened and experienced in the latest soothing techniques and will not judge you for being unable to breastfeed. &nbsp;Two, six and twelve hour stays available with priority appointments for women who sucked it up and didn't schedule "me time" in the first year of life. &nbsp;You'll come back for that baby rested,&nbsp;rejuvenated&nbsp;and beaming in post coital bliss. &nbsp;Try us today!&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yup. &nbsp;Those things right there. &nbsp;The above are all things near and dear to my heart and how I wish I could make them happen. &nbsp;That would be my dream job - professional philanthropist. &nbsp;And I wouldn't fire myself for writing about it, either.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I feel better just thinking about it.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp;</span>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-717284346916078752012-01-27T13:11:00.001-05:002012-01-30T15:13:23.886-05:00Answering a challenge.<b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My never-met-in-person friend Alida, is a writer. &nbsp;I adore her words, her delivery, her reality. &nbsp;She does not know this, but she is the person that inspired me to take my own words to task and push the "enter" button when Blogger asked "Create this Blog?" &nbsp;Words set me free, and to her, I am grateful.</span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Alida's writing has ebbed and flowed as she faced the reality of her 30's last year. &nbsp;It was a rough year, a year of lessons. One of those years that you have to work hard to make sense of. &nbsp;One of those years that I have experienced as well, and felt my eyes well up with tears as I learned that someone else&nbsp;barreled&nbsp;through loss and love and life.</span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">If I could tell Alida one thing, it would be to ride the wave. &nbsp;I loved being young, but for selfish reasons. &nbsp;I was carefree, thin,&nbsp;</span></b><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">passionate&nbsp;</span></b><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">and&nbsp;</span></b><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">in love. My 30's and 40's have thrown me curves &nbsp;that would leave a major leaguer swinging out of his shoes. &nbsp;But still I ride my waves. &nbsp;Because life is a lesson, and we all know what happens when you blow off the lessons, right? &nbsp;I am still passionate and in love, not so much thin and definitely not as carefree, but I attribute that to the curve balls&nbsp;</span></b><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">balls that life &nbsp;throws as you grow up. The ones&nbsp;</span></b><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">that are making me a patient, stronger hitter as I travel through my days. &nbsp;</span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">In her blog, which you will find here: <a href="http://pantslessinseattle.wordpress.com/2012/01/27/31-for-31-part-2/">Pantsless In Seattle</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Alida poses the question: What are some of the things life has taught you?</span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I love a challenge. &nbsp;I love words. &nbsp;I love the people who got me here. &nbsp;Alida taught me the word "loveful." What are some of the things life has taught me? &nbsp;These are my loveful answers:</span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b><br /><ul><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Don't look back. &nbsp;You're not going that way.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Real friends are more important than many friends.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Sometimes simply showing up is winning.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Don't worry about being perfect. &nbsp;You never will be. &nbsp;That's the beauty of you.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Never confuse education with intelligence. &nbsp;Thank you, nursing for teaching me this on about a million levels. &nbsp;</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Your gut will tell you what you really want an answer to. &nbsp;See above.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Be kind. &nbsp;You know not what people are battling. &nbsp;Your smile may be a beacon in their dark and your words may be the hand that helps them up. &nbsp;&nbsp;</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Laugh. &nbsp;A day that you don't laugh is a wasted day. Take this one from a girl that laughs at the most inappropriate times - ever.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Learning to ignore things is one of the paths to inner peace.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">About paths: Your path is yours. &nbsp;Another person's&nbsp;path is theirs. &nbsp;Neither of you is wrong. &nbsp;When your paths meet, you'll see why.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Books are not an option. &nbsp;Reading is bliss.&nbsp;</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Sleep solves a lot of problems.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">You will never regret saying I love you. &nbsp;Really, you won't.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Comfortable underwear is a necessity of life. &nbsp;(Thanks, Nana).</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Your career is not set in stone. &nbsp;Change what makes you chained.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Humility is the greatest trait a person can offer the world.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">A glass of wine under the stars is how marriages survive.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Music is freedom, joy, passion, tears. &nbsp;Music is free love. Get lost in it.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Saying no is the most liberating thing in the world. &nbsp;And it gets easier each time you put yourself first.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Dogs are the truest souls on Earth.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Water and everything you can do in it is free therapy.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The smallest effort will make a difference.</span></b></li><li><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">You can never hug your children enough. &nbsp;&nbsp;</span></b></li></ul><div><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Thank you Alida, for breaking through my writer's block and reminding me what's important. &nbsp;</span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Much love to you as you ride your waves.</span></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></b>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-10039760580832831642012-01-04T23:37:00.001-05:002012-01-16T09:25:50.287-05:00Anywhere but here.<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Heads up, ya'll. &nbsp;I have the stomach flu. &nbsp;And if you had asked me 10 hours ago, I would have surely told you I was dying. &nbsp;Right now my people are avoiding me like the plagued victim that I am, leaving me no choice but to take to the keyboard and pop out the random thoughts that went through my head as I rode the nausea and vomiting train today. &nbsp;And yes, I will Clorox Wipe the keyboard when I am done.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My flu hit me at work. &nbsp;How bad does it suck to be starting an IV and feel the gurgle in your stomach that says "it's not a good idea to continue this&nbsp;endeavor", &nbsp;immediately followed by your brain's warning: "Do NOT try to fart this one away, it will be&nbsp;disastrous"?" I heed my brain's warning, but I stick with the IV start. &nbsp;I gurgle again. And I look at my friend Michael working on the other side of the patient and say "I'm &nbsp;going to the bathroom. &nbsp;NOW." &nbsp;And I'm off. &nbsp;I run to the bathroom and throw open the door to find...the floor guy. &nbsp;Damn floor guy, &nbsp;waxing floors at work on our shift. &nbsp;He is always inconveniencing me in some small way but this time he has completely outdone himself. &nbsp;I blast down the hall, panicking now, my destination the teeny bathroom outside xray. &nbsp;I make it. Barely. I no longer care that there are people on the other side of this door, I am doubled over. I pray that this is a one shot deal, knowing full well that it is actually the dawn of a really ugly last three hours at work. &nbsp;I cringe at the thought of a hospital bathroom being my solace. &nbsp;"Anywhere but here," I say. &nbsp;"Please God?" (Not that I am counting on God's cooperation in this matter, but I can't exactly pray to Wilfred Brimley, who I believe kind of looks like God.) &nbsp;I wobble back to the unit, where Michael notes my pale face and shaky hands. &nbsp;This? &nbsp;This is not good.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I keep pushing through work. &nbsp;I try to triage a girl that presents for "vomiting for 3 hours," but I find myself wishing I could vomit all over her and say "I would give a million dollars not to be throwing up here right now, yet you show up after 3 hours of puking? &nbsp;Ass." &nbsp;I am hateful, and it presents itself in the form of more vomiting in the teeny tiny bathroom with the very dirty floor.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I prep for the drive home: &nbsp;big pink bucket, towel, nerves of steel. &nbsp;Inevitably, I hit every single red light on my three mile drive. I cry a little; pitiful, fluish girl that I am. &nbsp;I pull into driveway, with a fleeting thought that my house looks very similar to welcoming Buddhist Temple. &nbsp;(It could not be farther from one.) &nbsp;I hit the door shedding coat, scrubs, ID badge and bra as I head for the mecca of my bed. &nbsp;Toss on a nightshirt. &nbsp;Curl into fetal position. Groan. Moan. Stomach cramps. Bathroom. Rest on cool (clean) tile floor. Crawl to bed. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. &nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">In between repeats, I ponder. &nbsp;When your stomach hurts, you think about anything else to distract you from how much your stomach hurts. &nbsp;I think about the maker of Zofran and how they should be elevated to Stomach Flu Sainthood. &nbsp;I think about people who have cancer and deal with nausea every single day. &nbsp;I pray for them, because I cannot imagine the hell they go through. &nbsp;I think about, of all things, my Mother. &nbsp;I know, I don't write about her too often and I have my reasons, but sometimes when you are sick you think about your Mom and wish it could be like it was when you were little. &nbsp;My Mother didn't care how sick you were; you got up, sat in the chair and watched as she cracked the window, let in the fresh air and changed your sheets. &nbsp;And when you got into bed again, (in the fresh pajamas she made you put on after she brushed your hair off your face) you suddenly felt like everything just might be OK, after all. &nbsp;I never forget that when I am sick, and I wished, for a minute, that someone would do that for me as I laid there alone.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I sleep the fitful sleep of the flu, grateful for the increasing amount of time between episodes. &nbsp;I dodge a phone call from Nana, because I do not have the strength to yell into the phone so she can hear me. I review my day and try to understand why people would want to be anywhere but in their own home when they have the flu. &nbsp;That one, I leave alone because I will <i>never</i> understand the logic of people who show up in the ER if they have thrown up less than 2 days, let alone 2 hours. &nbsp;Eventually, My Knight in Shining Armour arrives home from work with the only request I ever have when I throw up. &nbsp;Coke Slurpee, never diet, with a little bit of Cherry Fanta Slurpee on top. &nbsp;Slushy heaven in a little green cup. &nbsp;With a blue straw. &nbsp;Always. I don't get better if it's not a blue straw. &nbsp;That's part one of recovery. &nbsp;Part two is Vernors, good old Michigan Made Vernors, and if you don't have it in your parts, I bet your flu/hangover/morning sickness lasts twice as long because Vernors, well Vernors is nectar of the Gods. &nbsp;No other ginger ale measures up. &nbsp;All this hullabaloo from a girl who doesn't drink pop any other time in her life. &nbsp;Isn't that funny? &nbsp;I have no explanation other than it just works.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">That first sip of Slurpee after a day of everything going the wrong way in my esophagus makes me think that there might be a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow of food I have vomited all day long. &nbsp;Holding my breath, hoping, praying it just...stays...in. &nbsp;When it does, I send the creator of Slurpees to the Sainthood Review Board as well. &nbsp;It could be the snowiest, messiest, grayest day on Earth, but when I get my Slurpee, the sunbeams bust through my world like that baby at the end of Teletubbies. &nbsp;I just might survive, after all. &nbsp;I might live to care for the rest of my people when they get my gastro. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">A new day arrives, I take those first shaky steps to the fridge to get my Vernors. &nbsp;I make toast. &nbsp;I take my favorite sherpa blanket to the couch and start the count down of days until I can tolerate coffee. &nbsp;I survive. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The Flu. &nbsp;Gastro. &nbsp;Pukefest. &nbsp;Call it whatever you want, but keep the remedy consistent. &nbsp;Slurpees, Vernors, clean sheets, a dash of hope and a lot of self love.</span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MSOKVEOoebI/Tw46VaXrobI/AAAAAAAAAPA/3ASjxaFzkLM/s1600/baby-in-sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MSOKVEOoebI/Tw46VaXrobI/AAAAAAAAAPA/3ASjxaFzkLM/s320/baby-in-sun.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-66597270979913154272011-12-17T16:05:00.003-05:002011-12-31T09:07:23.584-05:00Kitchen Nightmares.<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>I am supposed to be sleeping between 12 hour midnight shifts. &nbsp;When our kids were small Bill used to dread my weekends to work, trying to keep a couple rowdy kids corralled so I could snag five hours of sleep before doing it again. &nbsp;By the third day in a row I was cranky and it seemed like I woke up for anything and everything, the simple reason being that I was missing out on my family's weekend and wanted to be a part of it, tired or not.</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Today it's a little different. &nbsp;I woke up to four 18 year old's in my basement that were so quiet I had no clue they were there. In her room, Casey was singing with her headphones on at a volume I couldn't hear. Bill has done well. &nbsp;After all these years, the kids respect when I sleep. &nbsp;A fan in the bedroom and a shot of Sambuca before bed doesn't hurt, either.</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Today I woke up in the middle of the day for a wonderful reason. &nbsp;I woke up because my house smelled amazing. It smelled like spices and garlic and <i>BACON</i> and chicken stock. &nbsp;It wasn't a dream, and it wasn't a lame Folger's&nbsp;commercial. &nbsp;It meant Bill was cooking.</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>When we married, I don't recall a summit meeting about division of chores. &nbsp;I can't remember laying claim to certain responsibilities. I simply remember that by default, cooking fell to Bill. &nbsp;He was just plain better at it. &nbsp;Unlike me,&nbsp;Bill knew his spices, the difference between a sauté</b></span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;pan and a pot, and the proper knife to use. &nbsp;Bill would never make a spaghetti sauce containing not one but two <i>bulbs</i> of garlic in it. (<i>Clove. Bulb.</i> Apparently there is a difference. But he ate it like a trooper and together we learned that garlic has the ability to ooze from your pores and permeate pretty much everything around you for days and days). &nbsp;Call it a rookie mistake. Call it a dating tragedy. &nbsp;Call it one if Bill's favorite "Do you know what she did?" stories.</b><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>I clean the house, or at least 90% of it. When I paint rooms, Bill cuts in, which I hate doing. &nbsp;I enjoy the outdoors, so I mow the lawn by choice. &nbsp;I am fussy about how things look, and everyone suffers because of it. I maintain the pool, we both do laundry. &nbsp;There are no "boy jobs" and "girl jobs" around here. &nbsp;I have been cooking more often, thanks to my friend Laurie's blog and the magical tug of the of Food Network; where I can listen to southern accents all day and the Barefoot Contessa comforts me with her voice. &nbsp;I do OK. &nbsp;But the bottom line is Bill is the family cook.</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Sometimes I get surly about the house being a mess, the laundry piling up, the grime on the kitchen floor. &nbsp;Then I hear one of my friends&nbsp;complaining&nbsp;about making dinner and I check myself. &nbsp;I believe the responsibility of putting a complete dinner on the table seven days a week would throw me into a massive panic attack. &nbsp;The planning, the timing, the pressure? No thanks, I will tackle the toilet bowl ring every, single, time.</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>When I am supposed to make dinner, I look in the fridge and I see...nothing. &nbsp;I shut the fridge. I ponder. &nbsp;I open it again. &nbsp;I look a little harder. &nbsp;I see...nothing. &nbsp;I proclaim to Bill: &nbsp;"There's nothing to eat in there". </b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Bill moves me aside. &nbsp;Bill opens the fridge. &nbsp;Bill rummages. &nbsp;Bill walks across the kitchen with an armload of the nothing I found and in 20 minutes, there is food. &nbsp;Hot, delicious, healthy food made out of nothing. &nbsp;It's a festivus miracle, and I cannot duplicate it, no matter how hard I try. He makes it look easy, chopping, dicing, flipping food around in the well oiled pan. &nbsp;He's like a running back, cutting this way and that, moving fluidly between the fridge, the stove, the table. &nbsp;It's like watching the ballet of sous chefs, if there was such a thing.</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Conversely, my kitchen routine consists of the following:</b></span><br /><ul><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Look at recipe.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Begin to assemble ingredients on counter.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Walk back to computer to look at recipe.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Get out pans that I am allowed to use (the shitty ones I ruined, not the ones Bill uses).</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Walk back to the computer, cursing my aging brain that can't hold a thought.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Move mouth as I read to make words stick better.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Start cooking.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Drop shit.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Stomp back to computer because I forgot. &nbsp;Again.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Splatter stuff on my shirt.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Swear.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Turn computer toward kitchen. &nbsp;Realize I am blind.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Swear.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Swear.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Look imploringly at my beloved.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Step aside to let Bill salvage my mess.</b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Apologize profusely for my incompetence.</b></span></li></ul><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</b><br /><ul></ul><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Please don't judge. &nbsp;I work hard to clean up after the Pig People I made.&nbsp;&nbsp;I make sure the vacuum tracks all go the same way. My lawn rocks. &nbsp;My countertops sparkle. &nbsp;But at the end of the day, when I am eating &nbsp;pea soup with chorizo, (yes, I had to ask him what chorizo was) I am grateful that in addition to a homemade, balanced meal, I also have helped create a balanced marriage. </b></span><br /><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>The other day, I was watching The French Chef. &nbsp;Even though I am a sub par cook, I like to watch the masters, and Julia Child is my favorite. &nbsp;At one point, she looked directly into my eyes and spoke to me. &nbsp;I just know it was me she wanted to get through to, because what she said was this:</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">“The best way to execute French cooking is to get good and loaded and whack the hell out of a chicken. &nbsp;Bon appétit. ”&nbsp;</span>&nbsp;</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>I whooped as I headed to the wine rack to make dinner.</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Bon appétit, indeed.</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div><br /><div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /><br /><br /></div></div></div></div>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-80825064307214985682011-12-12T23:15:00.000-05:002012-08-15T07:41:27.443-04:00Pinheads. (The Frontal Lobe Analysis of Pinterest)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">In my Thankful post, I gave a hearty shout out to Pinterest, the new darling of the social media. &nbsp;For those of you unaware, Pinterest describes itself as: &nbsp;"A virtual pinboard that helps you organize all the beautiful things on the web". &nbsp;People use pinboards to decorate their homes, plan their wedding and organize their recipes. &nbsp;In an nutshell, think of it as a scrapbook for your thoughts and inspiration, all in one handy place. &nbsp;I love it. I ooh, I ahh, I pin my little heart out, often at the neglect of nine million other things I should be doing. While perusing the site one day, (to find out if you could possibly pin for a living so I could quit work) I uncovered the "Etiquette" section. &nbsp;In the Etiquette section, I am reminded that "Pinterest is a community of people who have personal tastes, and I am requested to be respectful in my comments and suggestions".</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">&nbsp;OK, I say. &nbsp;I can play nice. I'm a nice girl.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">But it's a little challenging for me to play nice day in, day out. &nbsp;I try, but bottom line is I am just not <i>that </i>nice of a girl. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I need some relief from nice, which leads me here, to my safe, comforting, filterless place. &nbsp;The Lucky Strike area of my head. &nbsp;I need to unload some baggage, because that "Pinterest community of people" tend to flip my snark switch, like whoa. &nbsp;Pinheads, I have named them. &nbsp;And now, because I'm so nice, I will break it all down for you.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Hmmmmm.&nbsp;</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Where to start? Kind of difficult, because it's a somewhat lengthy list of snark we have here. &nbsp;What category to choose? &nbsp;I think I will start with "It's All About Me" for 500, Mr. Trebek.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">&nbsp; Oooh! &nbsp;How about: Your Wedding Day? &nbsp;And so it begins:</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-39TDiYgq_Mo/TudmGhYlptI/AAAAAAAAAM8/IoVvREx3014/s1600/I+asked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-39TDiYgq_Mo/TudmGhYlptI/AAAAAAAAAM8/IoVvREx3014/s320/I+asked.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Now seriously. &nbsp;What man would do this? &nbsp;And if he did, are you <i>that</i> desperate to be married? &nbsp;To <i>him</i>? I pray this fiancee will post this on her Facebook page, so his friends intervene before he tumbles farther into girly-dom. &nbsp;As much as I wish for a bit more romance and emotional pampering in my life, <i>this</i> would freak me out, big time.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Onwards.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">SAVE THE DATE!</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Translation:&nbsp;<i>Everyone! </i>&nbsp;There could be nothing more important in your whole world than <i>my</i> wedding day. &nbsp;Stick a big red circle around it and make sure you take the day off work, get a sitter, kennel the dog, buy a dress, get your hair did and most importantly, write me and the Mr. a big fat check. &nbsp;Save the date, because from today on, it's all about ME ME ME! </span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">In case you forget, here's a reminder:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H1NJ74iBACY/TubQVm7eDRI/AAAAAAAAAM0/p_vX535OGnQ/s1600/save+the+date+bs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H1NJ74iBACY/TubQVm7eDRI/AAAAAAAAAM0/p_vX535OGnQ/s400/save+the+date+bs.jpg" width="121" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Aren't we adorable? &nbsp;Have a magnet. Of Us.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">(Note of irony: &nbsp;that bottom picture happens to be Bill and I's anniversary. I hope they didn't taint it too badly).</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Pinterest also gives you suggestions on Wedding pictures, how to ask a Bridesmaid to stand up for you, (it involves a gift, for God's sake. Doesn't anyone just <i>talk</i> anymore?), how to make a video montage of (what else) you (wonderful you) and oh yeah, the Groom too. &nbsp;Some days I have to sit on my hands so not to bust out my "this is a wedding, not the second coming of Christ" commentary.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Still, I play nice.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And then one day, our couple becomes two and a half...</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-avVToo9-waM/TudwXHaXsxI/AAAAAAAAANM/Kvyl_t_BWVA/s1600/we%2527re+pregnant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="201" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-avVToo9-waM/TudwXHaXsxI/AAAAAAAAANM/Kvyl_t_BWVA/s320/we%2527re+pregnant.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">reminding you that you can save not only a date, but a whole month in honor of a baby that may nor may not decide to show up in June, 2012. Lord knows my own children had no sense of due date. &nbsp;We will cover the prosaic hand heart later, rest assured.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Side note: &nbsp;Did you know a Sperm Whale is pregnant for 16 months? &nbsp;Have mercy! Yet you never hear a peep from her. &nbsp;Likewise, the Sperm Whale will not be found hosting <i>this</i> ridiculous event:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MQd9nUZVHlo/TudygGicHaI/AAAAAAAAANU/OFisDwFhAmQ/s1600/gender+reveal+bs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MQd9nUZVHlo/TudygGicHaI/AAAAAAAAANU/OFisDwFhAmQ/s1600/gender+reveal+bs.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Behold the "<i>Gender Reveal Party</i>". &nbsp;Something I never knew existed pre-Pinterest. &nbsp;Something I live in fear of being invited to. &nbsp;Something I know I will never be invited to again if I <i>do</i> elect to attend one. &nbsp;Because a girl like me can only shut her yap for so long. &nbsp;Especially after I had to endure having <i>this</i> genre of pictures shoved in my face for the last ten years:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mX-YnK18zsM/Tudzxo0PJhI/AAAAAAAAANc/yk1riHz4FXw/s1600/cliche.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mX-YnK18zsM/Tudzxo0PJhI/AAAAAAAAANc/yk1riHz4FXw/s320/cliche.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Wurd.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The countdown commences, the shower comes and goes, the "Name Reveal" (yes, they have those too) happens and one day the text message comes (because nobody ever <i>talks</i> anymore)...</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">&nbsp;Baby's Here!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And she is perfect. &nbsp;The pregnant belly deflated, the gender revealed, the name awarded, the trilogy of hype completed.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Yet you cannot go a single day letting her be her gorgeous, perfect, bald headed self, because you slap one of these on her head at every opportunity:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j3yfY98Q40Q/Tud0F7bgN2I/AAAAAAAAANk/QmSqkofdMgU/s1600/baby+hat+bs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j3yfY98Q40Q/Tud0F7bgN2I/AAAAAAAAANk/QmSqkofdMgU/s320/baby+hat+bs.jpg" width="256" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">while you contort her into unorthodox positions:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aocmkY0uxD0/Tud0UI0yigI/AAAAAAAAANs/8pSYHh0--P8/s1600/baby+pose+bs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aocmkY0uxD0/Tud0UI0yigI/AAAAAAAAANs/8pSYHh0--P8/s320/baby+pose+bs.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">and put her in a straight jacket flat on her back:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PQ341zDbfYM/Tud15YwzU3I/AAAAAAAAAN0/QI5Lp6H6Xro/s1600/swaddle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PQ341zDbfYM/Tud15YwzU3I/AAAAAAAAAN0/QI5Lp6H6Xro/s1600/swaddle.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Poor, sweet baby. I feel you. Your head needs to be warm, not decorated. &nbsp;Your hands need to be by your face so you can mess around and do baby things like suck your fingers. &nbsp;You need to be held, not obnoxiously propped. &nbsp;You, little Baby, are deserving of a Pinterest free infancy.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I am still trying to play nice, but I am losing the battle, baby advocate that I am. &nbsp;</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My comment fingers tremble with fervor, yet I press on, only to be rewarded with <i>this</i> nonsense:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iE_iEzj56Sg/TuedqJFBt1I/AAAAAAAAAN8/zBzhYtuD6mE/s1600/elf+bs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iE_iEzj56Sg/TuedqJFBt1I/AAAAAAAAAN8/zBzhYtuD6mE/s320/elf+bs.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Introducing Mommy's new little helper; the Elf on the Shelf. &nbsp;Creepy, creepy little Elf that "watches you" to be sure you behave, and "reports back to Santa". &nbsp;He bargains with &nbsp;Mommy and Daddy, exchanging discipline for bribery. He gets into mischief and shows up in places that little sinister dolls have no business being in. &nbsp;He's watching <i>you</i>, Little Baby that is now a preschooler. &nbsp;And when you grow up living in terror of Santa and Christmas&nbsp;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">(along with a whole lot of other things),&nbsp;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">you can blame it on your Mommy and her macabre Elf. &nbsp;</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Stupid Elf. &nbsp;I am so glad he wasn't around when my kids were little, because my Mother surely would have bought into <i>that</i> fiasco.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">As I proofread all this, I realize that all of this venting makes me edgy. &nbsp;I should probably exercise. &nbsp;Lucky for me, Pinterest is right there, shaming me with pins like this:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_GkMLIjiPY4/TufjeiGrBKI/AAAAAAAAAOE/c8HU4PlFZZc/s1600/running+bs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_GkMLIjiPY4/TufjeiGrBKI/AAAAAAAAAOE/c8HU4PlFZZc/s320/running+bs.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Well, dammit I <i>am</i> busy. I am busy on Pinterest. Reading about exercise. On my ass.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Maybe I should keep calm? &nbsp;There is no shortage of Keep Calm and.... pins on Pinterest. &nbsp;This one is my favorite:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oBR6mWiffl8/Tufj4fyMOrI/AAAAAAAAAOM/5oCd5Xugt2I/s1600/keep+calm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oBR6mWiffl8/Tufj4fyMOrI/AAAAAAAAAOM/5oCd5Xugt2I/s320/keep+calm.jpg" width="241" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Thank God snark is not limited to just me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I love Pinterest. &nbsp;Really, I do. &nbsp;But speaking of done to death, if I see another version of this, I swear I will vomit.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bUwLCX1E6Bc/TufkWt3ROgI/AAAAAAAAAOU/UDM9qhNqZb4/s1600/heart+hand+bs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bUwLCX1E6Bc/TufkWt3ROgI/AAAAAAAAAOU/UDM9qhNqZb4/s320/heart+hand+bs.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Heart Hands be gone. The timer is going off. &nbsp;You are finished. &nbsp;Please never come back.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Speaking of done; I am. &nbsp;Almost. &nbsp;I leave you with the final wonder of Pinterest. &nbsp;It begs the question: Who the hell decided that these are the rules, and furthermore, who put them in numerical order?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DqdxXzCIUSE/TufleQorYVI/AAAAAAAAAOc/-5oXtHC1QJU/s1600/numbered+bs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DqdxXzCIUSE/TufleQorYVI/AAAAAAAAAOc/-5oXtHC1QJU/s1600/numbered+bs.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Who is this rule maker? &nbsp;I demand you step forward. &nbsp;Because we need to chat. &nbsp;You do not get to make my rules. &nbsp;<i>I</i> make my rules, and I opt <i>not</i> to number them, because the rules are subject to change at any time, for any reason, including and certainly not limited to my hormone levels. &nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I'm nice.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K4NYz1RfCNA/TvTYLCxai5I/AAAAAAAAAOs/Fa0UwrpxDOo/s1600/MarkWallingerFilmTheEnd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K4NYz1RfCNA/TvTYLCxai5I/AAAAAAAAAOs/Fa0UwrpxDOo/s320/MarkWallingerFilmTheEnd.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-50892789014138407832011-11-26T20:31:00.001-05:002012-01-01T19:28:55.341-05:00Prime Cuts<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Last night was a night I had been looking forward to for a long time. &nbsp;It was Prime Cuts Saturday night, and I am going to fill you in on one of my most treasured traditions.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Remember when you began to date someone and a moment of truth was when you went through their music collection? &nbsp;Sometimes you discovered new artists, sometimes you thrilled to see they had the album you had been missing from your own collection, sometimes you made a mental note to keep the Mace in your purse within reach at all times. &nbsp;And sometimes, if you were lucky, you discovered your perfect musical fit. &nbsp;The person that would be with you anytime, anywhere with the music of your life playing in the background.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">A million years ago when Bill and I began dating, we went through the dance of musical compatibility. &nbsp;I have written in the past about how significant music is&nbsp;&nbsp;to me, and to find out Bill had similar taste was icing on the potential relationship cake. &nbsp;We made whole evenings out of popping a record on my amazing stereo system in my otherwise empty apartment, playing a single song and then telling each other why we considered it a Prime Cut. &nbsp;We watched the equalizer lights dance and I told him they reminded me of city landscapes at night. &nbsp;I told him I called them my Dancing Cities. I held my breath, waiting for him to laugh. &nbsp;He did not, so I fell in love with him a little more for understanding my weirdness. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My album collection, at one time, was fantastic. Then life took over, rent became due, car payments loomed and my record budget took a big hit. Just as I was shaking my head to clear it out a little, CD's were introduced. &nbsp;Behold the CD; no more shaking hands while putting the needle into the groove of the perfect makeout song. No more worrying about stealing a big album from your boyfriend. No skips, no heavy sigh when getting up off the couch/bed/makeout spot to flip the record. CD's: more bang for your makeout buck.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">So we bought CD's. &nbsp;Many, many, many CD's. &nbsp;And yes, Bill, I probably did kind of lose that box of them. &nbsp;If you're reading this, consider it a confession. &nbsp;All your Columbia House freebies are out there, somewhere. I grovel for you, right here, right now. Madonna's "Burning Up" MTV video in the road grovel. Please absolve me.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Although we bought CD's by the truckload, we could not part with our albums. &nbsp;We moved our records from one apartment to the next, divided them when we broke up for a year and a half, and finally carted them to their final resting place in the basement of the starter home we were going to stay in for "a while" but still occupy 19 years later. Once again, life got away from us.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Bill is not an easy person to buy gifts for. &nbsp;His life is fairly simple, he doesn't "need things". I have learned over the years that he has politely thanked me for "things" I bought that he could not have cared less about having. He makes me a nervous gifter. So I felt I was taking a leap of faith when I ordered a Turntable to MP3 player for his birthday last year. &nbsp;Once opened, he thanked me politely. &nbsp;I sighed heavily.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Then I fretted, as the box sat unopened for six months. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I felt loser wife-like. I was a failed gifter (again). I told him I could use the $180 for wine or beer if he wanted me to return his gift.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">While Bill would have no problem blowing through $180 of libations, he said "no" and that he was waiting for the right night to have Prime Cuts. &nbsp;Which about made me cry because I forgot we had named it Prime Cuts and I was taken back to the days of cereal and croutons counting as meals, wine coolers, banana clips in my spiral permed hair, and all other things young and perfect. &nbsp;Prime Cuts. &nbsp;Not only musical selections, but the times of your life as well.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Last night we had our Prime Cuts evening, and as expected, the crackles and pops of our well used albums were &nbsp;sublime. &nbsp;The delight of reading liner notes on the inside sleeves brought tears to my eyes. &nbsp;Seeing my fantabulous collection of Prince EP's made my heart sing, especially since I can now pop them onto my iPod through the magic of technology. &nbsp;We laughed at ridiculous albums like "Touch" and "747" and I made fun of Bill for the millionth time for liking Journey. &nbsp;We played Duran Duran and E.L.O. and Yaz. We sat on the floor, reminiscing about makeout sessions and the beginning of our life together. We had a blast. From the past.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Earlier that week I had been writhing on the couch with a migraine I was convinced was a stroke waiting to ruin my life. I couldn't see, I couldn't walk, and I was having a real hard time making my thoughts come out of my mouth. &nbsp;I didn't want to scare my kids so I laid there, waiting, willing Bill to come home from work to help me. &nbsp;I did some bargaining, because it was <i>that</i> scary. &nbsp;I begged the powers to not take my brain away from me, that even though it often caused me stress and embarrassment, I didn't take it for granted. &nbsp;It was a lovely brain and I wanted desperately to keep it. &nbsp;At that moment, Bill walked in, and did what he has been doing for 26 years. &nbsp;He talked me through, covered me up, held my hand and made me feel safe. &nbsp;It was a Prime Cut moment.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Today our music comes through various computers, with little stick like speakers replacing the 3 foot tall blocks that doubled as end tables. &nbsp;My amazing stereo is disassembled in the basement, with most of the parts sold or donated to charity, except for the equalizer. &nbsp;I can't part with my dancing cities. &nbsp;I just can't. &nbsp;Prime Cuts night inspired Bill to clean the furnace room in the basement, storing our albums on shelves so they can be safer. They will be out to play again, soon. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I have lots of Prime Cut moments. &nbsp;Because I have lots of blessings. &nbsp;I write them down here in case my brain someday decides it doesn't want to keep them anymore. &nbsp;I am working on making peace with growing older, and while nights like this make me a little melancholy, I am so happy to have had those blissed out moments to savor. &nbsp;I have a Prime Cut life.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NcUmCRfMP50/TuUiIJ14C4I/AAAAAAAAAMs/kkz2ms7S5fE/s1600/equalizer_skyline_by_graphicshunter94-d26kux4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NcUmCRfMP50/TuUiIJ14C4I/AAAAAAAAAMs/kkz2ms7S5fE/s400/equalizer_skyline_by_graphicshunter94-d26kux4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-77657994010877944082011-11-22T09:35:00.001-05:002011-12-31T08:57:58.094-05:00Thankful.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>At this very moment, I wish I was thankful for the maid that was scurrying about making my house neat and tidy for the upcoming holiday season. &nbsp;Survey from my peripheral vision assures me; that is not the case. &nbsp;Last night's nacho remnants are scattered over the bar, strips of Hershey Kiss wrappers are littering the carpet I just had cleaned last week. &nbsp;150 pretzel/Hershey Kiss/peanut butter M&amp;M treats were assembled at 11pm, because the Room Mommies decided that two days prior to Thanksgiving was the perfect time to have a bake sale for the 5th grade. &nbsp;Note to ya'll - this is an easy item to make, and your kids can do the majority of the work.</b></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Here's what they look like assembled:</b></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BIgseV0NgTA/Tsu0kKUSYCI/AAAAAAAAAMU/qgDJA-gz7go/s1600/pretzel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BIgseV0NgTA/Tsu0kKUSYCI/AAAAAAAAAMU/qgDJA-gz7go/s1600/pretzel.jpg" /></b></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>That, my friends, is the closest you will ever get to seeing this blog take a turn toward food prep, so enjoy it. &nbsp;I now turn over the recipe invention wand to Laurie at Simply Scratch, whose blog is in my feeds and recommended to all of you as a Godsend for Those Who Don't Cook Much. &nbsp;</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>This post is about Thankful. &nbsp;Please redirect yourself and focus on the task at hand,&nbsp;</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Miss Van Dyke. (Spoken in Evil Catholic School Nun Voice from my youth)</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Oprah; one of the only&nbsp;celebrities I think is worth her salt, once spoke about keeping a Gratitude Journal. &nbsp;The idea was simple: &nbsp;each night,&nbsp;jot down a few things that you are grateful for and reflect on them. &nbsp;Thank the &nbsp;person in charge of your life for these things, and try to pay them forward. &nbsp;&nbsp;</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Isn't that nice? &nbsp;I mean really, really nice?</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Yet I could not pull myself together enough to do it. &nbsp;</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Today, however, I am going to play catch up. &nbsp;In no particular order, I will share with you the things I am thankful for, and we both will reflect on them, and I challenge you to pick something and pay it forward. &nbsp;I am a huge believer in Karma, so I think you will be very pleased to see good things come back to you when you indulge my request.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Kim's Gratitude Journal - Cliff Note Version</b></span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Despite my complaints of old lady hip, broken rib subluxation, migraines and chronic weight&nbsp;battles, I am thankful for my health. &nbsp;I am not on dialysis, in a wheelchair or on a scooter in Meijer with a basketful of pop and cheetos. &nbsp;I am strong, stubborn and willing to persevere to get what I want. &nbsp;I pay it forward by working to help others get healthier, or at the very least give them the pain medicine they are addicted to so they can live to seek narcotics another day without seizing.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>I am grateful for my people. &nbsp;</b></span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>I have 2 healthy gorgeous children, a husband I adore, friends who surround me with light and laughter, coworkers that alternately torture me and save my ass. &nbsp;I show my gratitude to them by assembling Pretzel Kisses in the middle of the night, jumping in to help change adult diapers with contents so noxious we need masks (those would be the coworkers, not my family and friends), driving to retrieve lost house keys at 10pm on a Monday, and dropping everything to sit on the porch and just plain listen when someone's heart has been punched. &nbsp;To prove my point, the Karma thing is in full force when I show "my gratitude" to Bill. &nbsp;What you give, you get. Snicker. &nbsp;&nbsp;</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Thankful for Nana.</b></span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Nana, my little friend, the person that challenges my patience more than anyone else. &nbsp;I am so lucky to have her. &nbsp;Her&nbsp;generosity has bailed us out of many jams, her humor has made me laugh when I want to throw things, her mere&nbsp;existence has taught me how to live my life by looking at the big picture. &nbsp;Her deviled eggs, offers to iron and fold tablecloths, &nbsp;&nbsp;</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>and ability to make a perfect pie crust from scratch are just three of a million things I cherish and will take comfort from when she is not with me any more.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Dog.</b></span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Even though you are on my shit list of late, with this crazed behavior of peeing on the carpet (thus the carpet cleaners last week), digging up my perennials (no one stocks garden fencing in November) and middle of the night requests to go outside, I love you. &nbsp;I read this the other day, and chant it in my head when I want to call the Greyhound rescue and invite them to find you a landfill to dig in:</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IRL3PT3PfGY/Tsu70imaJuI/AAAAAAAAAMc/zbLeJUfFAEA/s1600/dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IRL3PT3PfGY/Tsu70imaJuI/AAAAAAAAAMc/zbLeJUfFAEA/s1600/dog.jpg" /></a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">For those of you with crappy eyesight like mine it says:&nbsp;</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Pinterest.</b></span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Seriously. Pinterest. I am so thankful to Moe, for finding me a place to lose myself for a few<strike> minutes</strike>&nbsp;hours a day. &nbsp;I find motivation, inspiration, beauty, humor and peace all in one convenient website. &nbsp;I&nbsp;lack the body composition to wear the things I lust after, I&nbsp;am not one to scrapbook, &nbsp;have no time (patience) to learn to quilt, little money to decorate the way I wish, but what I do have are my Pinterest Boards. &nbsp;And they make me happy. &nbsp;I am paying it forward by telling you to get yourself over to Pinterest.com and sign up. &nbsp;It's free joy for the taking.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Vision.</b></span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>I thank my stars above that I can see. &nbsp;I can see colors, nature, feelings, blight, insecurity and peace. &nbsp;Because I have vision I can act to make the world a brighter, happier, safer, more comfortable place. &nbsp;I decided long ago that anything is better than nothing, and encourage you to remember that when you have so little to give that you think it is better to just keep it to yourself. &nbsp;</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><u>Random Items that People Invented&nbsp;</u></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>My lighted makeup mirror, Slacker radio, Funky reading glasses, Biggby Coffee, my new Sherpa blanket from Costco, Keen clogs, Digital cameras, Swimming Pools, and Blue LED Christmas lights (the prettiest ones of all) are on my list.&nbsp;</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Thank you also inventors of Sharpie markers, iPods, Etsy, Fleece socks, Pedicures and Milk chocolate. And wine. And craft beer. And good vodka. Amen.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>You.</b></span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>I am grateful, very very grateful for your comments, support, laughter and acceptance of run on sentences as I pursue something I love: my writing. &nbsp;Like eight million jillion other people who embrace the written word, I have a dream of writing a column. People who mean the most to me have challenged me to step up, so I have set a goal to send my words off to editors that have the power to break my spirit and tell me I suck. &nbsp;Because of you, I know that when that happens, I will be just fine.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><i>Happy Thanksgiving, Friends. </i>&nbsp; &nbsp;</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-4095636675913479142011-11-16T13:38:00.000-05:002013-05-31T13:04:27.441-04:00Evolution of a Mom<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Have you ever thought about your journey as a parent? &nbsp;How you got to the place where you are? &nbsp;How different it is than you imagined when you planted the seed of being a mom into your head?</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">As I type, Casey is asleep. &nbsp;Spelling words completed, Halloween finished - Luna Lovegood costume a success, Griffyndor T-Shirt laid out for the next day. &nbsp;Travis is in the basement, playing X-box, &nbsp; hooting into his microphone to his friend in Chicago as his Football Team alternately scores and sucks. &nbsp;At times I want to yank the thing out of the wall.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I just watched the Season 2 finale of Sons of Anarchy, which I would have never known about had I not had a Son of my own. &nbsp;I realize now there would have been a <i>lot</i> of things I wouldn't have known about had I decided against having children.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">When you get right down to it, there was really no decision at all. At least not one that I carried to fruition. &nbsp;When we planned a pregnancy, I miscarried. Every time I got pregnant and actually made it to delivery, <i>they</i>&nbsp;had decided to have <i>me</i>. &nbsp;At the most inconvenient times of my life, no less. &nbsp;Twice. &nbsp;What is that they say; "Man plans, God laughs"? &nbsp;Well she had a side splitting time with me, no doubt. &nbsp;</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I suppose if I would have been a <strike>little</strike>&nbsp;a lot more careful with the <i>alcohol consumption + diaphragm use formula</i>, &nbsp;my pregnancy convenience factor would have been more favorable. &nbsp;But it was what it was, and I got my babies. &nbsp;One that was six weeks old when I started nursing school, and one eight years later that came after I busted my ass to lose 75 pounds and had come to terms with having an only child. &nbsp;There's Karma, as only I would get it.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">These children changed our lives, as all children do. &nbsp;We embraced the brave new world of 5 minute <i>just&nbsp;</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>do it</i> sex, driving aimlessly around the neighborhood to quiet a screaming baby, catching barf in our bare hands, and the realization that restaurants with 2 year olds are never, ever a good idea.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I slept on the floor next to the crib praying to the Laughing At Me God not to let my girl be brain damaged from seizures. &nbsp;I held a sobbing Travis in my arms in post op while he declared that &nbsp; having his adenoids out was "not fun at all and why did everyone lie to me and say this would be fun?" &nbsp;I held fish burials and cleaned fish tanks that I didn't want and intervened when Travis and his twin buddies tried to dig up the poor dead cat because we buried him with a baseball that they now needed to play with.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I fought the good fight.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Yet, I am not a perfect mommy. &nbsp;Just ask the Stepford mommies at the elementary school Casey attends. &nbsp;The ones who pull into "their" parking spot ten minutes early, get out and walk their kids into school with shoes on, &nbsp;their hair done and make up intact, busting with eagerness to suck up to the teacher. &nbsp;When I pull up at one minute to the bell, I have yanked a hat on my head and my make up is <i>on</i>, baby. Because it's the stuff I didn't wash off from the night before. &nbsp;Alice Cooper has nothing on me at 8am on a Tuesday. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I avoid PTA, PTO whatever the hell you call it now like the plague. &nbsp;I don't head fundraisers and go to mommy coffee clatch. &nbsp;I don't do Girl Scouts/Brownies/Bluebirds. I am the one telling my kid to return the candle/cookie dough/wrapping paper/cheap ass whatever they are trying to sell that year forms the day after she brings them home. &nbsp;I get carsick on&nbsp;buses&nbsp;so field trips are not my thing. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Does that make me a bad person?</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Nah. &nbsp;Know why?</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I learned. &nbsp;I learned from the trial child, Travis. &nbsp;The one I killed myself doing all that crap for. &nbsp;The one who looked at me blankly when I posed the question: &nbsp;"Do you&nbsp;remember&nbsp;when I volunteered for that committee in 2nd grade and you had that amazing party and we bought the teacher the best gift ever?" &nbsp;"Do you remember the reindeer cookies I made and the sweet little Halloween goodie bags we gave to your first grade class"?</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Yeah. Not. So. Much.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">When I first pondered becoming a mom, when the "you're so pregnant" stick had two lines and I alternated wanting to puke with puking, when the formerly flat stomach began swelling and stretchmarking and filling with feet that kicked my bladder, I had some grand delusions. &nbsp;My baby would sleep. I would put it in the jogging stroller and off we would go - every day getting our exercise. &nbsp;I was going to be the room mommy. &nbsp;The hot mommy. &nbsp;The cookie baking, car pool driving, organized, &nbsp;healthy snack mommy. &nbsp;I was going to work, parent, keep my house clean, keep my husband happy and wear my size 10 jeans to my kid's first birthday party. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Silly, silly, Kim. &nbsp;Duck as the fist of reality heads right at your face.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Please pause now, and flip your dial over to the Actuality Channel.&nbsp;</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Here is Mom Kim, staying up until 2am to assemble the 4th Grade Arctic Wolf diorama she forgot after she threw the reminder note out in a fit of clutter reduction. &nbsp;Here she is breathless, running out of the house in a nightshirt because she set the alarm for 8pm instead of 8am. &nbsp;Watch as Kim parades through the house with a garbage bag full of Legos that she threw out in a fit of rage when one lodged between her 2nd and 3rd toe. &nbsp;Observe as she "swears she hasn't seen" the too tight Harry Potter T-shirt that gets worse every washing. See her struggle not to cry when she has nothing that fits to wear to the Christmas Concert (or the Graduation, or the Swim Banquet.) &nbsp;Tune in as she heads to Meijer at 3am to look for Monster High Dolls with the drunks and Middle Eastern population. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Hear Kim scream "WHAT IS IT THAT YOU WANT FROM MEEEEEEE?" to the infant that has been crying for six hours straight. &nbsp;See her stomp outside in her nightgown and boots at 4am to throw down with the neighbor who is shoveling snow under screaming baby's window. &nbsp;Observe as she leaves a dog biscuit under the pillow of the boy who tried to trick the tooth fairy by leaving the dog's lost tooth there. &nbsp;And on, and on, and on.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">On paper, I kind of suck at Momming.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">But really, what are the moments you remember about your mom? &nbsp;Is it dioramas or Monster High Dolls that broke 10&nbsp;minutes&nbsp;after you got them? &nbsp;Is it what she was wearing when she took you to school, or the fact that you got there safely? &nbsp;What did you get your 3rd grade teacher for a holiday gift? &nbsp;Did you think your mom was pretty? &nbsp;Do you remember when she screamed at you when you had colic?</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I think not. And mercifully, beautifully, m</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">y kids put a different spin on what makes a good Mom.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My kids go crazy when I announce that it's meatloaf and apple pie night. &nbsp;My kids wear Chuck Taylors because I do. &nbsp;They listen to great music because I exposed them to it. &nbsp;They have a million pictures of the things they have done because I took them and made them albums. &nbsp;My kids were taught hand made cards are best, so they make cards that alternately make me laugh and cry because they are so hilariously spot on. &nbsp;I contribute to things at school under the radar because it's inner joy, not recognition, that I crave. &nbsp;My kids are clean and loved and immunized and don't smell like&nbsp;cigarette smoke. &nbsp;My house doesn't look like an episode of "Hoarders". Their friends like to come to our home, and they are (almost) always welcome. And while my kids sometimes make me want to tear my hair out, they know I would go to the ends of the Earth for them.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Travis appreciates that I worked two double shifts to buy the Xbox he screams at his friends on. &nbsp;Casey smiled in the realization that no one in the school had a cooler, more original costume than Luna Lovegood. She is told she is beautiful, strong and sweet because we pray she stays that way. They attend guitar, swimming, baseball, dance and vocal lessons because I took the time to find them and sign them up. &nbsp;They hug and kiss us and tell us they love us because it was told to them a million times, from the minute they came into the world. &nbsp;They laugh, because they were raised with humor and taught the value of self deprecation. They are happy, because they appreciate life.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">On paper, or maybe to the model mommies, I may suck. &nbsp;But in the real world I am not so bad, after all. &nbsp;Because I can take it when God laughs.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dszH9eZ-31Q/TvVztGlktHI/AAAAAAAAAO4/yKu0LtvtZMY/s1600/Picture+517.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dszH9eZ-31Q/TvVztGlktHI/AAAAAAAAAO4/yKu0LtvtZMY/s320/Picture+517.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-70358132887059641572011-10-09T22:15:00.001-04:002011-11-23T12:07:49.711-05:00(Your) Precious<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The A plus number one thing about ER nurses? &nbsp;<i>Nothing</i> is off limits. &nbsp;We put it out there, literally and figuratively. &nbsp;We hold up droopy testicles, floppy old titties, yucky pannuses and whatever else is in our way to get where we need to be. &nbsp;And then we talk about it. Oh Sweet Baby Jesus, do we talk.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">That told, this entry practically writes itself. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The scene: 4 a.m. in the almost vacated ER. &nbsp;Only the row of four psychiatric admissions sleeping &nbsp;off their ativan remain, snoring while their "sitters" do word searches or study their nursing school textbooks&nbsp;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">(Godspeed, children</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">). &nbsp;Four nurses, a tech and a doctor pretending not to listen to us are gathered at the nurse's station, drinking our coffee and finally, finally, finally, getting to sit down.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Dawn is the one to fire up the conversation. She begins with, "You guys". &nbsp;On cue, we all roll our chairs a little closer, knowing that this will be a good one. &nbsp;Once we are huddled appropriately in a gossip circle she begins: "I handed my patient a specimen cup tonight and asked her to give us a urine sample. &nbsp;She looked at me like I was on crack and said 'Girl, ya'll think I can fit my big pussy in that little bitty jar? &nbsp;You crazy.'" &nbsp;Dawn, having excellent critical thinking skills but lacking a poker face, excused herself to fall apart in the utility room before returning with a much larger "urine hat" to place in the toilet. &nbsp;After obtaining the sample, Dawn returned to Big Pussy Lady's room to find the urine hat washed, dried and in the patient's belongings bag. &nbsp;The patient said, "Now that little bathtub can help a girl wash her pussy right". &nbsp;With that, Dawn returned to the utility room, attempting to prevent her own pee from running down her scrub pants as she laughed.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>Big Pussy? </i>&nbsp;Who the hell says that? &nbsp;(Tony Soprano excluded). &nbsp;<b>BIG</b> Pussy. &nbsp;Even I, adoring of bluntness and having an occasional lack of moral fiber, finds Big Pussy a little bit over the top.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Big Pussy Lady led us into a conversation about vaginas. &nbsp;Having never attended the Vagina Monologues but having a fair amount of experiences with my own and a couple thousand more vaginas, (work vaginas - not the lesbian fantasy stuff that keeps house in Bill's brain) I think I have a pretty fair grasp of all things Private. &nbsp;Most of us do, actually, whether you view them on a daily basis or are limited to occasional deviant vagina exposure. &nbsp;It's a good thing to know your body, respect what it can do, care for it properly and of course let it take you to new heights.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">But <i>what </i>do you call it? &nbsp;I ask you, blog worthy friends, <i>what do you call your vagina</i>?</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Herein lies the entertainment section of our story.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Dawn turned, as she often does in times of desperation and cheating on trivia questions, to her iPhone. &nbsp;I see her typing U-r-b-a-n D-i-c-t-i-o-n-a-r-y as fast as her little fingers can touch screen. &nbsp;I hear her sigh as she weeds out the obvious. &nbsp;I grab a pen and paper as she &nbsp;rattles off the following:</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Peach. &nbsp;Flowerpot. &nbsp;Pink Cadillac. &nbsp;Beef Curtains. &nbsp;Midge. &nbsp;Apricot Slit. &nbsp;Promised Land. &nbsp;Red Gash. &nbsp;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Pink Taco. &nbsp;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Honey Pot. &nbsp;Cherry Pop. &nbsp;And finally, Poontang.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"Now,with Poontang here," Dawn announces as we sit with rapt attention, "we are going to get schooled". &nbsp;The gossip circle tightens a bit more, and she begins:</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Did you know that Poontang is a Filipino term for vagina? &nbsp;Did you also know that Poontang has subspecies? &nbsp;I bet not. &nbsp;But here for you, ladies and Joe, I unfold the levels of Poontang. (Unintended pun).</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>Poontini</i>: &nbsp;the vagina of a baby.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>Poonini:</i> &nbsp;the vagina of a young girl. 3-19 years old.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>Poontang</i>: &nbsp;the vagina of someone in their prime. Specifically ages 20-35. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Then, the kicker:</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>Poonono</i>: &nbsp;An old vagina with a fairly large muff. &nbsp;Ages 35-110.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Poonono. I am a Poonono. &nbsp;I am aghast. And then, I erupt. &nbsp;"THIRTY FIVE TO ONE HUNDRED AND TEN? <i>Thirty five. To. One hundred and ten</i>. &nbsp;So I am lumped into this broad, large muffed category with Nana, Betty White and Paula Deen? &nbsp;<i>Blasphemy!</i> &nbsp;At least you could use the politically correct, Southern charm oozing term "Mysteries", which any elegant woman would be proud to say in public!" &nbsp;For God's sake, a Poo-NO-NO?</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">At which the doctor who is pretending not to listen to us appears to have a spasm at his desk. &nbsp;At which none of us get up to help him. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My monumental offense at the word has&nbsp;inevitably&nbsp;earned me a new nickname. &nbsp;Mrs. Poonono is typing at you this very instant.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Dawn is dubbed Midge, as it is a term for one with red, um, hair. Dawn being short, Irish and mahogany haired (on top) is a perfect little Midge.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Carolina born Faith is christened Precious, since her Grandma taught her that all things Precious were housed between her legs and she was not to let any boy "get at her Precious".</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Which leaves our tech; Joe.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Joe is a boy, and a very cool one at that. &nbsp;He can girl talk with the best of us. &nbsp;Joe offers up that his sister was the owner of a "Woo Woo", his wife had "Privates" before he "made them public" and that this whole bottom of the barrel conversation reminded him of when he was a paramedic and ran on a woman whose husband met them at the door to announce that he probably "broke her cummer" after she had a&nbsp;seizure&nbsp;during sex.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Hail Joe, proud new recruit of the Midnight Nurses Vagina Club. &nbsp;Long may you bikini wax.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">So that's the latest entry into the Vagina Diaries. &nbsp;(Pun totally intended). This story is a blast to share. When I want to make someone laugh (and learn yet another name for vagina) I tell them about Big Pussy Lady. &nbsp;Props to Big Pussy Lady. &nbsp;We thank you for blazing the trail of vagina hygeine, for opening our minds to Filipino slang terminology, and for making me laugh far too loudly in the middle of Meijer when I bought this:</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3MJDnZciZgQ/TpJU1MKON6I/AAAAAAAAALs/IWO5x4FiP-c/s1600/precious+cleaner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3MJDnZciZgQ/TpJU1MKON6I/AAAAAAAAALs/IWO5x4FiP-c/s400/precious+cleaner.jpg" width="301" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Because if you are going to clean Precious, it should be done fast and effortlessly.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Party on, clean vaginas of the world.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><br />~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-3260768559320375942011-09-28T21:46:00.001-04:002012-01-01T19:43:48.995-05:00The Yoga Chronicles<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">It's autumn, which means I am a mentally labile girl. &nbsp;I jump between my pool closing induced depression (which I still have not completed but will do Sunday), my "They are back to school I have the house to myself" euphoria (limited now thanks to Travis commuting to college from home), &nbsp;the "It's not so bad I can wear a sweatshirt but still flip flops" self comforting mechanisms, and the "You'll be OK now, there is still alcohol" segue from crisp white wine to full bodied reds.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">Oh, and yoga. &nbsp;Back to yoga.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Yoga is not a summer activity for me. &nbsp;I am sure that makes the true yoga lovers, (yogis? yougos?) blanch in their Uttanasanas, but I can't stomach the idea of sweating like a pig and face planting on a slick yoga mat in the middle of July. Those yoga people are all about too hot rooms and sweaty bodies, but I am not on that bus.&nbsp;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Unless they come up with polar bear yoga in an air conditioned studio, you'll see me in September.&nbsp;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I am not one that will wake at dawn and perform Sun Salutations, so yoga remains a cool weather sport for me.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">With the onset of Autumn, Friend Moe and I made a pact to attend at least one yoga class per week. &nbsp;In the past I have written about my classes with Jeanne the Queen Yoga Mother, who pushes me to embrace my inner&nbsp;goddess. &nbsp;I love Jeanne&nbsp;but I am a smidge disappointed to tell you that I have not attended a Jeanne led class this fall. &nbsp;Instead, Friend Moe pulled a bait and switch and we go to Wednesday Vinyasa Yoga with Instructor Lauri. Here is&nbsp;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Lauri, with the butt like a perfect peach and the arms like a gunnery&nbsp;sergeant. &nbsp;Lauri, who tricks you with the peaceful reflection at the start of class, gently moving you into the warming stretches that lubricate your creaky middle aged joints, then, rapid fire BAM BAM BAM is kicking your ass from here to Rhode Island. And beyond.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">I grew up an athlete. &nbsp;Baseball, volleyball, softball, swimming,&nbsp;water skiing, basketball, I played them all. &nbsp;On the field, court or in the pool I am a hard worker that is somewhat blessed with the ability to grasp a sport and be fairly competent at it. &nbsp;Until Yoga. &nbsp; I suck, suck, SUCK at yoga, people. &nbsp;Compare and contrast my flexibility with that of a river rock, a hippo, or a Catholic School teacher. &nbsp;Translation: I have no&nbsp;flexibility, which makes yoga really, really difficult.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">I try not to look. I try to concentrate on my breathing and be in the moment but I cannot help but gawk at the chosen ones who can twist like pretzels and headstand like statues. &nbsp;I catch myself thinking that their boyfriends and husbands (and maybe girlfriends too) must be over the moon about their ability to pull their legs around their ears and balance on their coccyx. &nbsp;I am green with envy, which kind of shoots the whole Namaste theory to hell. &nbsp;"The spirit in me is insanely jealous of the pretzel gene in you"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">&nbsp;is a closer version of the Namaste going through my head.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; line-height: 19px;">Yet I press on. &nbsp;I balance on my wobbly legs and try poses that make the old lady hip cry out in protest. &nbsp;I look like a drunk sorority girl on a Twister mat. &nbsp;I thrill with every small victory, every touch of my big toe when bending from the waist, every ten seconds that I manage to hold a pose that everyone else is locked into for thirty. &nbsp;I don't give up. &nbsp;My hands dodge the sweat droplets that fall on my mat in the fear of slipping and landing on my face in front of the Goddesses. I really try. I work so hard I turn beet red.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; line-height: 19px;">Every now and then I catch Moe's eye and we smile. &nbsp;I am grateful that after all these years she cares enough to push me to try things that I normally would count out because I am still working this weight battle. &nbsp;Fat girls at yoga? Ridiculous. Or maybe not so much. Who would have thought yoga could change your body? &nbsp;</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 19px;">Me. Who wakes up feeling like a Mack truck mowed her down, that's who. &nbsp;The girl in the t-shirt who is not comfortable rocking the tight tank tops, but who usually has the cutest feet in the class. (I really do have adorable toes). &nbsp;The girl that decided that every class she takes is a step closer to a stronger mind and &nbsp;healthier body. &nbsp;The girl that felt happy inside when Awesome Arms Lauri told her "I'm proud of how hard you work in my class". &nbsp;The girl that is slowly, surely, finding a new sport to add to the "you have no choice you must move your body" list.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; line-height: 19px;">Namaste, ya'll.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-9912014263842376872011-09-21T14:20:00.000-04:002016-12-16T17:51:14.534-05:00Nana's Day<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Nana and I had her favorite outing yesterday. &nbsp;The Visit to the Doctor Outing.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Let me begin by saying I adore Nana's doctor, Carl Karoub. &nbsp;(Often interspersed with Nana's name for him: Dr. Kaboo. &nbsp;As in "Kimi, I think we should see Dr. Kaboo, I haven't had a BM in a day and a half"). &nbsp;Dr. Karoub is an internal medicine physician who specializes in the geriatric population. &nbsp;The <i>average</i> age of his patients is 85. &nbsp;Eight-five, ya'll! Would you ever? My brain would be so sore from dealing with the 85 and up club every day, and my vocal cords scarred from trying to talk loud enough to bypass their crappy hearing aids. &nbsp;So in my book, Dr. Karoub and staff are angels on Earth.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Nana has not been feeling well, perpetual obsession of her bowels aside. &nbsp;Nine months ago her blood work came back supportive for a form of leukemia called myelofibroma. &nbsp;There is no real treatment for it if you are 94 and not a candidate for a bone marrow transplant, so we made the decision to wait it out and keep her comfortable in the meantime. &nbsp;I cannot wrap my brain around living to 94 years old. &nbsp;Old people's days revolve around pain, challenges and poop. &nbsp;I find nothing encouraging about any of that. &nbsp; &nbsp;Nana has slowed down a lot since she broke her hip, but she still cried and protested "I'm not ready to die yet, <i>I have things to do</i>" when we told her about the myelofibroma. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Nana has things to do. &nbsp;That can only mean one thing: &nbsp;I have things to do as well. So off to the doctor we go.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Dr. Karoub has a welcoming waiting room. &nbsp;In it he has coffee, tea, and snacks all lovingly set out by his mother and her senior citizen friends. &nbsp;Yes, I said snacks. &nbsp;Dr. Karoub's waiting room is like Costco with easier handicap accessibility, and the Senior Citizens make the same "I haven't been fed in a month" bee line to the snacks as they do to the Costco sample table. &nbsp;God help you if you are in the way, because while they may be old, they still pack a mean hip check.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">I grab a coffee and ask Nana if she would like tea and a cookie. &nbsp;She proclaims to the entire room that she could not possibly have a cookie or tea, she has Depends, two pads and paper towel in her underwear but that may not be enough and if she "lost control" she would "just die". &nbsp;No food since 8am. &nbsp;It's 4:15. &nbsp;I wonder if her blood sugar will be 26 when they check it. &nbsp;If it is, I know where I am NOT going, and it's to the ER. &nbsp;We will hustle back to the waiting/snacking room instead, and load up on sugary treats. &nbsp;There's more than one way to skin a cat.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Onwards to the lab area, with Nana stopping along the way to hug staff as well as people she has never seen before that have been polite enough to smile at her. &nbsp;When they ask her how she is, I inwardly cringe knowing that we have just added five extra minutes to our journey. &nbsp;Nana tells anyone who will listen about her dismal home life with Cousin Dorothy, the macular degeneration that is slowly killing her, and the fact that Travis is now in college with a <i>scholarship </i>(reminding me that I still owe OU $4300 that the scholarship did not quite cover). &nbsp;I let the kindly people suffer for a minute or two before I herd her along like a border collie. &nbsp;Nana gets her blood drawn, stops at the scale to learn that she weighs 98 pounds, and heads into the EKG area, where her favorite medical assistant is waiting.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Tracy the MA is another angel on Earth who loves the geriatric set. &nbsp;She has a loud voice, a willing ear and the patience of a saint. &nbsp;Nana adores her, and tells me often that I should get a job like Tracy's so I don't have to "take care of drunks and hookers". &nbsp;She declines my offer to cover the pay cut I would take doing so.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Tracy sets up her EKG machine while Nana unbuttons her blouse. &nbsp;She looks down at her boobs and states that she has no idea why she even bothers with a damn bra anymore, that she should just tuck them into her&nbsp;waistband&nbsp;and be done with it. I tell her for the millionth time that I will buy her a sport bra and she will be more comfortable and she tells me that she will wear Playtex 18 hour bras until I put her in a casket. &nbsp;I tell her that she weighs 98 pounds, and Casey weighs 90 pounds, so maybe we will shop in the girl's department for our next bra run. She waves me off, clearly finished with the&nbsp;conversation&nbsp;and anxious for Tracy's attention.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Tracy asks Nana how Cousin Dorothy is, which is the equivalent of pulling the pin from a grenade. &nbsp;I settle back on the stress test exercise bike to watch the show.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">"Oh Tracy, well I can tell you <i>these</i> things, Dorothy is <i>NO GOOD</i>. &nbsp;I get up at 5:30 every morning and set her breakfast table and she meanders in at 10:00 sometimes! &nbsp;Sleeping half the day away and eating all that candy that's bad for her di-beeties. &nbsp;She hasn't had a permanent wave since I don't know when and she looks like a cave woman with her mess of hair. &nbsp;I clean up after her all day long. &nbsp;She never cleans her mattress, she may have bedbugs. I don't know what I am going to do with her, I just don't know." &nbsp;She then announces "But she's REAL GOOD".</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">I translate: &nbsp;Dorothy is fine. &nbsp;She likes to sleep. &nbsp;When I am 97 I will eat chocolate and drink wine and sleep whenever the hell I want to, too. &nbsp;She is waiting for her social security check to get a perm at the end of the month, and she does not look like a cave woman. &nbsp;(That much). &nbsp;She certainly does not have bedbugs, she simply doesn't want her mattress flipped and&nbsp;vacuumed&nbsp;every other week like you do. Nana, leave poor Dorothy alone.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">This earns me a dirty look and confirms the fact that Nana hears quite well when she feels like it.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">And it only takes Tracy five tries to get an EKG printout that requires Nana to not talk and be completely still. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Nana unloads that I have not taken her to JC Penney, Kohls or Target "in months" and she "looks like an old bag lady" in her clothes. &nbsp;She neglects to mention I wash, set and style her hair every week and manage her finances and shop for the groceries that she forgets to buy when Sandy the Helper/Housecleaning Angel takes them grocery shopping. &nbsp;Because of this I don't feel too guilty about the bag lady clothes. &nbsp;JC Penney is hell on Earth, and I avoid it like the plague. &nbsp;Besides, at this point she can wear some of Casey's stuff. &nbsp;Maybe I will take Nana to Justice. &nbsp;She could use some sparkly peace sign shirts.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Finally we reach our destination; Dr. Karoub. &nbsp;A man I adore. He works incredibly hard and has a heart of gold. &nbsp;His little office is jammed with thank you notes, pictures of patients that have hit 100 years old (he sends a cake and flowers to every one), and a line up of products that can only be described as "Senior Necessities". &nbsp;Pepto Bismol, magnesium citrate, Miralax, Senna Tea, Quaker Oats and more. &nbsp;He does this so he can show them what to look for in the store. &nbsp;The other genius level thing he does is record the entire visit's conversation on his computer, complete with pictures. &nbsp;Like this:</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jYOtdc9iAlY/Tnolbnm5B-I/AAAAAAAAALo/c4PXWoTKbwg/s1600/Nana+doc+visit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jYOtdc9iAlY/Tnolbnm5B-I/AAAAAAAAALo/c4PXWoTKbwg/s640/Nana+doc+visit.jpg" width="464" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">In summary: </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Nana's picture: &nbsp;"Oh hell, I look like an old bag".</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Problem 1 we have covered. &nbsp;The bed already has a nice thick pad, plus Nana has&nbsp;multiple&nbsp;layers of pads, and a total of four touch to light lamps on the way to the bathroom. &nbsp;Not much more we can do with that.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">The response to: &nbsp;Things are going well with you and your cousin Dorothy Bruder was: a snort. &nbsp;Followed by a harrumph.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Problem 2: &nbsp;Nana's feet look like the picture. &nbsp;For real. &nbsp;When being shown this paper, she pointed to McDonald's and said "Well, I don't like him". &nbsp;To Campbell's Soup: "Well I have to eat those so Casey's school gets the labels". &nbsp;And to The Colonel: &nbsp;"Now, him, I like. &nbsp;Do I have to stop seeing him?". &nbsp;As if these were bachelors number 1, 2 and 3. &nbsp;When Dr. Karoub showed her the picture of the lady with her feet elevated she shot back "Dorothy would never let me lounge around on the davenport like that, but Kimi can go buy me a pillow for my feet and I will use it in bed". &nbsp;When I reminded her that she has a Lazy Boy recliner she told me that she doesn't like to bend that way because it binds up her ab-DOH-men and she can't poop. &nbsp;I am picking my battles, and don't pick this one. &nbsp;I make a mental note to look for the Bed Bath and Beyond coupon I stashed somewhere and get her a damn pillow.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Problem 3 makes me laugh my ass off.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Problem 4 makes Nana happy because she gets to go to yet another doctor as well as the hospital "where everyone knows Bill".</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">Nana's cholesterol is better than Casey's.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">And lastly, I may live to be 94 just so I can celebrate the day that someone tells me to gain weight.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">"Don't Fall". &nbsp;Short of bubble wrapping Nana, I have nothing here. "Don't Fall" is the equivalent of "Don't spill your milk", "Don't get in an accident" and "Don't drink too much on the golf weekend, Babe."</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">"Thanks to Kim for bringing you in today". &nbsp;You're welcome Dr. Karoub. &nbsp;I love you, and wish you an early retirement, but only after Nana's gone.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">After conversation about people Dr. Karoub has never met, situations he knows nothing about and places neither of us had been born yet to experience, Nana is hustled out with a hug and a kiss and a promise for a follow up visit in December. &nbsp;We head south on Woodward to Sign of the Beefcarver, where I am the only one in the place without a walker or a four pronged cane. &nbsp;Nana eats scrod and I turn my nose up at the bland roast beef that Al enjoyed later that night. &nbsp;I drive Nana home lights and sirens because "I ate all that scrod and now I have to poop". &nbsp;I kissed Dorothy goodbye, wished her luck and went home to have a much needed glass of wine with Bill.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;">December 20th will be here before I know it. &nbsp;Stay tuned.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;georgia&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-42357518746728757572011-09-11T23:43:00.003-04:002011-10-09T22:42:21.799-04:00Acts of Confliction.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The writing bug is an intermittent virus with me. &nbsp;Sometimes I feel like I am going to combust if I don't spill the things loaded up in my head, and other times I can stare at a blank screen thinking "where did all those thoughts go?"</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Today, I have both symptoms. &nbsp;I am angry from yet another act of ignorance displayed by those around me, but as I sit here I have no idea where I want to start. I am also frustrated because whenever I sit down to write, I have a metronome in my brain ticking away to the tune of "you have exactly ten minutes to get this down before X has to happen or you have to pick up Y or handle Z". &nbsp;Confliction. &nbsp;It's everywhere.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Bill would meditate and empty his mind. &nbsp;Bill would tell me to breathe. &nbsp;And I try. &nbsp;I really, really do. &nbsp;I am just, as my daughter would say, an epic fail at those things. &nbsp;So here, with you, I will release my combustion the only way I know how. &nbsp;With words.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I cannot for the life of me fathom why people have this need to be "the one" to announce a tragedy. &nbsp;Having a job where I witness bad news being given on a regular basis, I see little gained from being present to see the devastation in someone's eyes, the cry of pain, the chaos that follows the deliverance of bad news. &nbsp;Plainly put: it sucks.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I am not going to lie to you, I share things with those closest to me. &nbsp;I repeat stories, gossip and relay weird events. &nbsp;I slap my hands over my mouth and giggle when the same inappropriate things are shared with me. &nbsp;But people, I do these things in my home, in person, in private exchanges. &nbsp;I do not do them on Facebook.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Oh yes, here we are again. &nbsp;Facebook. &nbsp;I wonder on a regular basis how many lives are damaged, marriages tanked, friendships ended because of our favorite social media. &nbsp;I think people take the disclosure of their (and others) personal lives way too far. &nbsp;I found myself livid when someone decided that announcing the death of Casey's classmate in a Facebook post was a good idea. &nbsp;Who does that? <i>Who does that?</i> I will tell you: someone whose ego needs to be pumped. Someone who cannot wait to be "the one" to tell the horrible news. &nbsp;Someone who is, in my eyes, a very, very small person.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">To note - the metronome has been ticking for four days now, while I come back and forth to complete this blog entry. &nbsp;Again, X,Y and Z have combined to strip my writing time down to a minimum. &nbsp;Every time I return, I read what I wrote, delete some of it, and find myself a little less angry. &nbsp;I think in spite of myself I <i>do</i> empty my mind. &nbsp;It just takes longer to drain down. &nbsp;Don't get me wrong, I still think it is incredibly disrespectful to tell people a child that you barely knew died on a social media site. &nbsp;But I realize that in order to be a bigger person, you have to move past the things that burn you up inside and find something to make that burn heal.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Today is September 11th. &nbsp;I chose not to turn on the TV or read the papers today, because I despise America's obsession with picking scabs to the point that they take forever to heal. &nbsp;I don't forget the day, the people that lost their lives, and especially the first responders that died doing their jobs. &nbsp;I bless the firemen and paramedics I work with every day, saying a silent prayer for their safety as they walk out the ambulance bay into the night. &nbsp;I thank them, I laugh with them, I sing their praises. &nbsp;Because <i>they</i> are the ones who carry the image of Casey's friend with them. &nbsp;The kid they tried to save, the kid they feel they failed. &nbsp;The kid they'll never talk about on Facebook. &nbsp;I wish them a peaceful heart, an empty mind, a metronome that ticks as slow as molasses. &nbsp;And that, in turn, brings me peace. &nbsp;</span>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-16983159377392366992011-05-26T14:56:00.008-04:002011-06-13T00:23:39.300-04:0018.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t5G1Q_RSxQo/Td6oSqRA5HI/AAAAAAAAAJY/nFwfK7lN9KU/s1600/Picture+513.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t5G1Q_RSxQo/Td6oSqRA5HI/AAAAAAAAAJY/nFwfK7lN9KU/s320/Picture+513.jpg" width="193px" /></a></div>There is a vibe in my house that is electric and magical, a vibe that I can remember as if it was yesterday. &nbsp;It's the vibe of adulthood, and while I am sometimes considered an adult, it's not me. It's my son.<br /><br />On Friday, May 27th, I will become the proud owner of an adult. &nbsp;At least on paper.<br /><br />For this momentous occasion I feel the need to share words, so I wrote Travis a letter.<br /><br /><b>Dear Travis,</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>Eighteen years ago I was 28, swollen, afraid and lying in a hospital bed trying to keep you inside me. &nbsp;Ahead of me was nursing school, a full time job and a new marriage. None of those things mattered, however, because the only thing that mattered was you. </b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>I am sad you are a boy only for one reason - because you will never know the visceral, soulful magic of being a mom. </b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>I would have stayed in that bed, miserable and frightened for a year if it meant keeping you safe. &nbsp;Someone was entrusting me with something huge, way bigger than myself and your Dad, yet something only the two of us could create. So in that bed I stayed until they decided that you were better off out in the world than in the safe harbor of me. It's odd, because that is a metaphor of how I feel today, as we prepare for you to graduate and head out into your life as an adult.</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>I will never forget your Dad's voice cracking as he saw the tip of your head, and the awe I felt as I pushed one last time, and you tumbled into the doctor's hands. &nbsp;At that moment, nothing in my life would ever be the same.</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>You were the baby that people would stop me on the street to say how perfect, how beautiful, how angelic you were. &nbsp;Your voice was one I could pick out among a thousand, your tears brought my tears, your laughter segued mine. &nbsp;I held you and rocked you and read to you and fought for you and then one day, I went to kiss you but I had to look up instead of down to do so. &nbsp;It happened <i>that fast</i>.</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>We grew up together, you and I. </b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>So Travis, as you head into a world that doesn't always give you everything you want, I want you to remember these things. &nbsp;Carry them in your heart, live them in your actions, house them in your soul, because these are things that are going to make you the man I know you are capable of being.</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>Be kind. &nbsp;Be kind knowing that you may not get kindness in return. &nbsp;Be kind when you want to turn away, when it is inconvenient or time consuming. &nbsp;The light you shine into someone else's darkness may be a beacon for them, and your life will better because kindness always returns to you tenfold. </b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>Be smart. &nbsp;You are, I know. &nbsp;My honor student, the math whiz I could never be, the studious Senior that I never was. &nbsp;Academic smart is important, but gut smart is what you will need to get you through life. &nbsp;If something feels wrong, it likely is. &nbsp;If your gut tells you "this is the right thing to do", if people who know you and love you tell you to run with an idea, you should. &nbsp;You know I believe in a higher power, and that power resides in you. &nbsp;That little voice telling you to do the right thing is actually a really big voice that is trying it's best to guide you.</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>Say it. &nbsp;The words that are in your heart have the capacity to grow when they leave your mouth. &nbsp;If someone means the world to you, tell them. &nbsp;If someone hurts you, let them know. &nbsp;Dad has accused me of wearing my heart on my sleeve, but the other thing he tells me he loves is my passion for what I do and what I believe. &nbsp;That passion can only be released when you put it out there for the world to see. Say I love you. &nbsp;Hug people. &nbsp;Look them in the eye when you speak. &nbsp;This is trust. &nbsp;This is what you need to be whole.</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>Be able to say you are sorry. Humility is the single most important trait a man can have. &nbsp;You will be wrong sometimes, whether it is in your job, your marriage or your parenting. &nbsp;The ability to say, "I could have done that differently, and I wish I had" will allow you to grow from your mistakes and make those you respect understand that you will never stop trying. To look someone in the eye and say "I am so sorry" puts another thread into the seam of a relationship, and makes it stronger. &nbsp;The most meaningful moments of your life will often follow the most frustrating ones.</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>Be strong. In times that you think you cannot take another hit, remember something that you are grateful for. &nbsp;I often thought of you, your sister or your Dad when I was bone tired at work or at my wit's end with my family. Gratitude will help you dig deep and remember the reason you are pushing on, whether it be in school, work or personal growth. Never give up. I learned this on a deeper level over the past year, and I don't want you to wait until you are 46 before you learn it too.</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>Take care of yourself. &nbsp;Please. &nbsp;Learn from my mistakes and make yourself a priority. &nbsp;Eat well, move your body, read great books, laugh hard laughs, and surround yourself with good people who inspire you. &nbsp;The best times I have ever had are also the simplest ones. &nbsp;Find joy in sitting in the yard with the person you love, listening to music and looking at the stars. Find peace spending time with your dog, floating in a pool, or making something beautiful that once wasn't. Make music on your guitar and let others continue to enjoy it like we do. &nbsp;Make people laugh. Inspire. Love. Grow. Be.</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>You will never know how much I love you. &nbsp;I am here for you, wherever the road takes you.</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>Happy 18th Birthday,</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>Mom</b><br /><b><br /></b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4_URq11j5Jw/Td6pjN9pGOI/AAAAAAAAAJk/jODw8s25WCo/s1600/P4080911.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240px" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4_URq11j5Jw/Td6pjN9pGOI/AAAAAAAAAJk/jODw8s25WCo/s320/P4080911.JPG" width="320px" /></a></div><b><br /></b>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498944605299862507.post-25862202284215876892011-05-17T09:54:00.003-04:002012-01-03T14:27:13.802-05:00Surly.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>T</b>he word surly is defined as: Bad-tempered and unfriendly. &nbsp;I love this word, and sometimes, I love being surly. &nbsp;You love it too, I know it. You just aren't going to put it out there in blog land.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So today, I call surly. &nbsp;I announce bad-temperament and embrace unfriendliness. &nbsp;And I have to do it all before 7pm when I punch in to work because while my employer encourages surly through their pay scale and staffing matrix, they do not encourage it in patient care.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I believe surly is viral. &nbsp;I have caught it from exposure to the following:</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Facebook. &nbsp;My love hate relationship. &nbsp;It appeals to the immature voyeur in me, the person who loves to know what's going on, who is happy to sign on at 3am and know that there are others in the world working, not sleeping, bored or drunk. &nbsp;However, I have posted and rapid fire deleted more comments than I care to admit because I think from the hip. &nbsp;So here, in my somewhat safe blog haven are the things I have deleted.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No one cares how far you ran today, how many minutes on the elliptical you logged or what Zumba class you went to. &nbsp;All you want is for the world to know that you did something they may not have done, which is move your ass from the computer. &nbsp;I don't care about your exercise schedule. And until you do the Ironman, I remain unimpressed. You tire me. I have hidden your posts.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I think you are very blessed to have a baby. &nbsp;However, I have reached the point where I see your child more than I see my own. &nbsp;Your baby never changes because I see it fourteen times a day through the magic of pixels on FB. &nbsp;Unless your baby/toddler/child is doing something funny, dangerous or remotely impressive, please limit our exposure to once a week. &nbsp;I have clicked the hide button, yet again.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You have a spouse. &nbsp;You live together. &nbsp;Why must you continually communicate on FB? &nbsp;I get the once in a while stuff, but all the time? Are you too lazy to walk up the stairs? Do you secretly live in different homes? Do you want to prove that you have this fabulous relationship chock full of love and adoration? Because a lot of us see through that facade. &nbsp;Click. Hidden.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Vaguebooking. &nbsp;You can't give it up? &nbsp;Then shut it up. Or take up fishing, since you like throwing a worm on a hook out to the world. Attention seeking is so unattractive. Delete that post.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Whining. &nbsp;Four little letters: STFU. &nbsp;Solve it, shelve it, do anything but complain about your miserable existence on a public forum.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I could go all day about Facebook irks, but I won't since there are more surly triggers to cover. &nbsp;Let's move on.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Pajama pants. &nbsp;People! Quit! Now! &nbsp;If you are over 30, wearing a camisole with no bra and have the word "Pink" anywhere on your clothing I reserve the right to publicly humiliate you. No doubt there are ugly faded butterfly/heart/flower tats under there somewhere too. I only wish there was a hide button for you.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Smoking around your kids. &nbsp;This is me, rolling my eyes as I help your child out of their stinky jacket while you swear that you "only smoke outside". &nbsp;You wonder why your baby's asthma has been so bad lately while I have flashbacks to 80's bars and hair that reeked of smoke and hairspray. &nbsp;You ask for free medication, yet you can buy $50 cartons of cigs. &nbsp;You suck.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My dear sweet beloved children. &nbsp;You are not exempt from surly. &nbsp;Your ability to trash a room ten minutes after I clean it, your inability to wear something more than once before tossing it on the mountain of laundry and your general cluelessness for the effort involved in raising you properly makes me bad tempered and unfriendly. Sometimes. But I still love you. I will not click the hide button for you. &nbsp;Ever.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">People, this post is not my finest moment. &nbsp;But I had to get it off my chest. &nbsp;If you're reading it, you can rest assured that you are not the target of my surly. &nbsp;I love you. &nbsp;You keep me balanced. You keep me sane. &nbsp;We should drink wine.</span>~Kim~http://www.blogger.com/profile/18136700203057939555noreply@blogger.com6